GEORGE  HOLMES  HOWISON 


THREE   DRAMAS 


OF 


EURIPIDES 


BY 


WILLIAM   CRANSTON   LAWTON 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN    AND   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1889, 
Bt  WILLIAM   CRANSTON   LAWTON. 


w 


All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  aud  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


7a 

2- 

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To 

Cfoe  JlUmorp  of  mp  jltot&er 


851013 


The  present  volume  of  essays  is  intended  as 
a  contribution  to  literature,  not  to  classical  philo- 
logy. The  writer's  appeal  is  not  to  Greek  schol- 
ars, except  for  unsparing  criticism  wherever  he 
has  missed  the  meaning1  of  his  original.  His  chief 
desire  is  to  make  this  group  of  ancient  dramas  in- 
telligible and  interesting  to  the  wider  circle  of  men 
and  women  who  are  lovers  of  good  literature.  In- 
cidentally, indeed,  he  could  not  refrain  from  striv- 
ing to  enforce  the  central  article  of  his  own  creed : 
that  in  the  drama,  as  in  all  the  other  creative  arts, 
we  may  demand  from  the  artist  not  a  mere  mirror 
of  life  in  its  more  vulgar  aspects,  but  rather  aid  in 
shaping  and  imitating  our  own  loftiest  and  noblest 
ideals. 

A  series  of  essays  upon  the  same  plays  has  al- 
ready appeared  in  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly ; "  but 
besides  many  additions  and  changes  in  the  original 
portions,  the  entire  dramas  are  here  given  in  trans- 
lation, instead  of  a  series  of  selected  passages. 
The  text  is  so  printed  that  the  versions  alone  may 
be  read  by  those  who  prefer  to  listen  to  the  clas- 
sical dramatist  without  interruption.    Critical  read- 


vi  PREFACE. 

ers  will  doubtless  notice  certain  differences  in  the 
treatment,  especially  of  the  choric  portions,  in  the 
three  plays.  It  may  be  well  to  state  here  that  the 
attempt  to  imitate  the  original  rhythms  in  such  pas- 
sages has  been  definitely  abandoned.  The  Medea 
represents  most  nearly  the  translator's  present 
ideas  as  to  the  proper  relation  of  a  version  to  the 
Greek  text.  Responsible  and  laborious  duties  un- 
expectedly assumed  within  the  last  few  months 
have,  however,  precluded  any  radical  recasting  of 
the  other  dramas.  If  encouraged  by  the  reception 
of  his  work,  the  author  contemplates  a  similar  vol- 
ume on  each  of  the  other  tragic  poets,  as  well  as  a 
selection  from  Euripides'  later  plays.  The  Prome- 
theus, Persians,  and  Antigone,  are  already  trans- 
lated. 

While  disclaiming  all  pretension  to  original  re- 
search, the  writer  desires  to  acknowledge  his  debt 
to  the  long  line  of  commentators  and  illustrators  of 
the  classic  drama.  Perhaps  the  two  from  whom 
he  has  learned  most  are  Nicolaus  Wecklein  and 
John  Addington  Symonds.  It  may  be  those  names 
were  never  in  such  juxtaposition  before,  and  they 
suggest  the  remark,  that  we  of  farthest  Hesperia 
—  if  we  can  have  but  one  of  the  two  —  can  better 
afford  to  renounce  the  encyclopaedic  learning  of 


PREFACE.  vii 

the  Germans  than  that   English  tradition  of    hu- 
manistic culture  which  is  our  birthright. 

But  the  value  of  this  book,  as  of  every  other,  de- 
pends in  the  last  analysis  upon  the  spirit  in  which 
it  is  written,  the  views  of  life  and  life's  opportuni- 
ties which  it  reveals  ;  and  therefore  an  infinitely 
heavier  indebtedness  has  been  acknowledged,  too 
late,  in  its  dedication.  Those  who  knew  the  heroic 
woman  whose  departure  has  left  desolate  the  hap- 
piest of  New  England  homes,  the  many  who  loved 
in  her  the  ideal  of  womanhood,  will  understand  how 
inevitable  is  her  children's  desire  to  consecrate  to 
her  memory  all  their  work,  and  their  entire  earthly 
existence.  Even  his  love  for  the  beautiful  crea- 
tions of  the  classic  poets  her  son  owes  first  of  all  to 
the  wondrous  instinct  of  motherhood.  Almost  the 
first  books  put  into  his  childish  hands,  and  read 
at  her  knee,  were  the  poems  of  Homer  and  Virgil. 
The  only  reason  for  repining  over  the  slow  years 
through  which  this  first  creature  of  his  brain  has 
taken  shape  is  that  he  cannot  now  lay  it  in  her 
hands,  nor  turn  to  her  for  sympathy  in  failure  or 
success. 

WILLIAM  CRANSTON  LAWTON. 

Cambridge,  Mass.,  November,  1889. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

On  the  Origin  and  Spirit  of  Attic  Tragedy        .        .      1 

The  Alkestis 21 

The  Medea 95 

The  Hxppolytos 179 

Epilogue 255 


THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 


ON  THE  ORIGIN   AND   SPIRIT  OF  ATTIC 
TRAGEDY. 

The  poetic  faculty  is  essentially  the  same  in  all 
times,  and  is  always  twofold.  The  poet's  peculiar 
gift  is  the  power  of  expression.  It  is  twofold,  be- 
cause we  all  lead  a  dual  existence,  an  inward  and 
an  outward  life.  Every  thoughtful  being  meditates 
much  on  the  mysteries  of  his  own  nature,  and  also 
gives  earnest  study  to  the  external  life  of  man 
among  men.  Many  reach  definite  convictions  as 
to  the  soul  within  them,  or  as  to  the  organized  ex- 
istence of  society.  Of  these  many,  a  few  have  the 
power  of  clear  and  imaginative  utterance  ;  and  they 
either  voice  the  aspirations  of  the  human  soul,  and 
thus  become  the  world's  lyric  poets,  or  they  draw 
out  before  us  their  conception  of  society,  revealing 
the  interdependence  and  influence  of  men  on  one 
another,  and  are  dramatic  poets,  the  poets  of  ac- 
tion. 

If  there  be  any  truth  in  this  fundamental  dis- 
tinction, the  lyric  poets  of  all  lands  and  ages  will 
stand  in  the  closest  kinship  and  sympathy  with  one 


2  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

another ;  nor  shall  we,  in  succeeding  ages,  feel  that 
there  is  anything  far  away  or  foreign  in  their 
though  i.  ^o  far  as  their  voices  are  real  utterances 
of.  human  loiiging  and  passion,  they  will  always 
appeal  «a  directly  from  soul  to  soul  as  they  did  in 
their  own  lifetime,  for  the  longings  and  passions  of 
the  heart  of  man  must  always  be  the  same.  And  a 
moment's  reflection  will  show  us  how  exactly  true 
this  is.  Who  needs  or  demands  to  know  anything 
of  the  times  or  circumstances  of  Omar  or  Saadi,  of 
Sappho  or  Anacreon,  of  Beranger  or  Burns  ?  Tell 
us  but  the  words  they  speak.  They  are  uttered 
directly  to  us,  —  to  all  hearts  that  love  and  dread, 
hope  and  repine. 

"  Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth !  " 

With  the  dramatic  poet,  however,  this  is  not 
equally  true.  He  shows  us  upon  his  broad  canvas 
men  and  women  costumed,  speaking,  and  acting. 
He  draws  men  as  he  sees  them  about  him,  the 
men  of  his  own  century.  Therefore  his  creations 
will  often  appear  strange  and  outlandish  to  us. 
We  can  understand  them  only  when  we  know 
thoroughly  the  age  which  produced  them  ;  although 
of  course  for  that  very  study  of  the  age  the  drama 
may  be  among  our  best  guides.  Then,  too,  the 
prizes  for  which  men  once  contended  may  seem  to 
us  ignoble  or  worthless.  It  may  not  be  easy  to 
look  at  the  outward  world  through  Greek  or  even 
through  German  eyes.  To  be  sure,  if  the  char- 
acters  are    anything   more   than  talking   puppets, 


ATTIC  TRAGEDY.  6 

their  humanity  will  be  stronger  than  their  nation- 
ality. The  greater  the  poet,  the  more  clearly  we 
shall  see  what  is  human  and  universal  in  his  men 
and  women,  through  the  veils  of  race  and  creed 
and  circumstances  :  but  yet  he  has  always  a  right 
to  insist  that  we  shall  endeavor  to  place  ourselves, 
as  it  were,  among  his  audience,  and  accept  his 
characters,  so  far  as  we  may,  with  the  setting  and 
the  background  for  which  he  wrought  them. 

Moreover,  the  dramatist  —  the  word  is  used  in 
the  narrower  technical  sense,  no  longer  including 
the  great  dramatic  writers,  from  Homer  to  George 
Eliot,  whose  works  were  cast  in  other  forms  — is 
peculiarly  bound  and  limited  by  conventions  and 
traditions.  This  is  the  more  important  in  the  case 
of  Euripides,  because  it  should  be  frankly  acknow- 
ledged at  the  outset,  that  he  was  not  only  fettered 
by  the  conventions  of  the  stage  and  the  traditional 
religion  of  his  race,  but  failed  to  harmonize  his 
work  fully  with  these  limitations,  against  which  he 
seems  to  have  chafed  nearly  all  his  life. 

The  present  volume  aims  to  present  in  English 
dress  a  group  of  Euripidean  plays,  with  only  so 
much  explanation  and  comment  as  may  put  the 
reader  essentially  in  the  position  of  the  original 
Athenian  auditors :  at  least  so  far  as  our  fragment- 
ary knowledge  of  the  antique  world  still  renders 
this  possible. 

If  a  man  were  asked  casually  what  he  supposed 
to  be  the  origin  of  the  drama,  he  might  very  prob- 


4  THRICE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

ably  reply,  that  it  springs  up  naturally  anywhere 
out  of  the  imitative  instinct  in  humanity :  that  it  is 
only  a  more  or  less  elaborate  attempt  to  "  hold  the 
mirror  up  to  nature."  If  it  were  further  asked 
whether  the  drama  is  an  expression  of  man's  re- 
ligious aspiration,  he  might  smile,  —  or  in  a  less 
enlightened  community  perhaps  even  frown,  — 
and  reply  that  the  apostles  of  modern  creeds  at  any 
rate  have  not  recognized  the  theatre  as  an  ally,  but 
rather  are  divided  upon  the  question  of  regarding 
it  as  their  deadliest  foe. 

And  yet,  a  historical  examination  would  essen- 
tially modify  every  one  of  these  impressions.  The 
drama  has  not,  in  fact,  sprung  up  spontaneously  in 
any  modern  or  mediaeval  people.  The  theatre  of 
every  civilized  race  has  taken  its  original  sugges- 
tion directly  or  indirectly  either  from  a  revival  of 
the  classics,  or  from  the  mystery-plays  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages.  These  latter  were  a  reminiscence,  how- 
ever dim  and  feeble,  of  the  Latin  drama.  And  the 
Roman  theatre,  in  its  turn,  was  in  the  beginning 
merely  a  transfer  of  Greek  plays,  by  Greeks,  from 
Greece.  Like  everything  else  which  stirs  in  our 
world,  then,  except  the  great  monotheistic  creeds, 
our  modern  stage  is  really  Hellenic  in  its  origin, 
and  can  only  be  fully  understood  as  a  development 
from  Attic  tragedy  and  comedy.  Besides  this  un- 
broken historical  connection,  the  drama  of  Western 
Europe  has  of  course  also  been  influenced  in  num- 
berless ways  ever  since  the  revival  of  learning  by 
the  direct  study  of  the  Attic  masters. 


ATTIC  TRAGEDY.  Ft 

The  dramatic  art  had  its  birth,  then,  in  Athens, 
in  the  fifth  century  B.  c.  ;  not  quite  "  when  Art 
was  still  religion,"  as  Longfellow  sings  of  Al- 
brecht  Diirer's  days,  but  rather,  when  all  the 
sister-arts  had  each  her  fitting  place  as  the  hand- 
maids of  religion  :  were  so  many  forms  of  expres- 
sion for  pious  aspiration.  For,  like  the  architect, 
the  sculptor,  and  the  painter,  the  dramatist  made 
it  his  loftiest  desire  and  honor  to  glorify  the  sanc- 
tuary, and  grace  the  festivals,  of  his  people's  gods. 

We  cannot  comprehend  the  spirit  and  aims  of 
Athenian  tragedy  or  comedy  at  all,  unless  we  re- 
member that  it  developed  gradually  out  of  the 
choric  song  and  dance  at  the  festival  of  Bacchos 
the  wine-god  :  or  to  call  him  by  his  proper  name, 
Dionysos.  He  is  indeed  not  merely  the  god  of 
wine,  but  of  fertility  and  of  the  life-element  in  na- 
ture, and  therefore,  although  his  worship  was  ap- 
parently introduced  into  Greece  much  later  than 
that  of  the  great  Olympian  divinities,  he  acquired 
an  unrivaled  prominence  in  Athens,  at  any  rate, 
as  the  favorite  rustic  deity  :  the  popular  god.  In- 
deed, the  increasing  honors  paid  to  him  in  Athens 
particularly  were  probably  closely  connected  with 
the  gradual  triumph  of  democratic  ideas.  He  is 
closely  connected  with  Demeter,  the  great  Earth, 
mother  of  all  life.  With  her  worship  Dionysos 
in  one  of  his  forms  was  intimately  associated  in 
what  appear  to  have  been  the  most  highly  spirit- 
ualized and  symbolic  of  all  Greek  ceremonials  : 
the    Eleusinian   mysteries.      The  wild   grief    and 


6  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

frantic  joy  which  alternated  at  his  festivals,  and 
out  of  which  tragedy  and  comedy  arose,  may  pos- 
sibly have  originated  in  the  sorrow  and  rejoicing 
of  primeval  man  over  the  apparent  death  and  sub- 
sequent resurrection  of  nature  with  each  revolving 
year.  It  is  perhaps  significant  that  tragedies  were 
always  performed  at  his  Winter  festival,  but  com- 
edy amid  the  rejoicings  of  the  vintage  time. 

The  original  element  in  the  Athenian  theatre 
was  not  the  stage,  but  the  orchestra,  where  the 
chorus  —  originally  costumed  as  satyrs,  the  favor- 
ite attendants  of  the  rustic  god  —  danced  and 
sang  about  the  altar  of  Dionysos.  These  choric 
songs  had  apparently  been  developed  through  suc- 
cessive generations  to  a  high  degree  of  perfection, 
before  the  idea  of  interrupting  them  with  recita- 
tion or  conversation  was  reached.  Originally  these 
chants  doubtless  always  celebrated  the  praises  of 
the  mighty  wine-god  himself.  The  first  innovation 
may  have  been  when  one  of  the  chorus  gave  in 
recitative  a  narrative  account  of  some  mythical 
adventure  of  the  god :  such  an  adventure,  perhaps, 
as  the  one  related  in  the  graceful  Homeric  Hymn 
to  Dionysos.  Later  an  interlocutor  was  intro- 
duced, who,  perhaps  from  an  independent  posi- 
tion, conversed  with  the  leader  of  the  chorus  in  the 
intervals  of  the  chant.  This  embryonic  "  first 
actor"  was  introduced,  we  are  told,  by  Thespis, 
and  may  at  first  have  represented  Bacchos  him- 
self. 

The  idea  of  dramatic  dialogue  was  now  almost 


ATTIC  TRAGEDY.  7 

readied,  and  the  addition  of  a  second  actor,  which 
is  credited  to  iEschylos,  seems  only  the  next  step 
in  a  natural  development.  This  was,  however, 
the  really  decisive  innovation,  because  it  rendered 
possible  a  dialogue  between  the  two  actors,  in 
which  the  chorus  was  merely  a  listener  ;  and  hence 
the  dramatic  element  began  to  push  the  original 
melic  and  choric  performance  more  and  more  into 
a  subsidiary  position.  iEschylos,  therefore,  is  the 
true  father  of  the  drama. 

Beyond  three  actors  the  great  writers  of  tragedy 
probably  never  ventured.  The  choric  element  was 
always  regarded  in  their  time  as  the  central  and 
essential  portion  of  the  whole,  and  the  prize  was 
assigned  to  the  wealthy  citizen  who  equipped  the 
chorus,  or  to  the  tribe  which  he  represented,  not 
to  the  poet  who  wrote  the  libretto.  It  is  a  signifi- 
cant fact  that  this  prize  was  regularly  a  tripod, 
that  is,  a  distinctly  religious  object ;  which  the 
recipient  was  permitted  and  expected  to  dedicate 
to  the  god,  either  within  the  precincts  of  the  great 
Dionysiac  theatre  itself,  or  beside  the  highway 
which  wound  about  the  base  of  the  Acropolis  from 
the  city  market-place  to  the  theatre.  From  the 
number  of  such  monuments  this  highway  was  called 
the  "  Street  of  the  Tripods." 

It  is  interesting  to  know  that  one  of  these  dedi- 
catory monuments  still  remains  in  quite  good  pres- 
ervation. All  visitors  in  Athens  will  remember 
the  so-called  Lantern  of  Diogenes,  which  owes  its 
preservation  to  having  been  built  into  a  mediaeval 


8  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

monastery,  and  which  was  used,  according  to  local 
tradition,  as  a  study  by  the  poet  Byron  during 
his  brief  stay  in  Athens.  This  little  structure  is 
of  circular  form.  Its  six  Corinthian  columns  are 
about  fourteen  feet  in  height,  and  stand  upon  a 
quadrangular  pedestal  of  about  the  same  elevation. 
Surmounting  the  entablature  —  to  which  we  will 
return  presently  —  is  a  low  cupola,  upholding  a 
triangular  basis.  Upon  this  basis  the  tripod  once 
stood,  —  but  stands  no  more.  (The  barbarian  in- 
vaders left  very  little  bronze  unmelted.)  All  the 
details  are  beautifully  elaborated,  and  the  little 
monument  is  one  of  the  loveliest  remains  of  the 
later  period  of  Attic  art. 

The  entablature  consists  of  two  members,  archi- 
trave and  frieze.  Cut  into  the  architrave,  which 
rests  directly  upon  the  columns,  is  an  inscription 
stating  that  Lysicrates  was  the  choragos  —  the 
wealthy  citizen  who  equipped  the  chorus — when 
a  victory  was  gained  by  a  chorus  of  boys  in  the 
archonship  of  Euainetos  (b.  c.  335) ;  that  is  to 
say,  seventy  years  after  the  death  of  Sophocles  and 
Euripides,  and  three  years  after  the  final  extinc- 
tion of  Athenian  freedom  by  Philip  of  Macedon's 
victory  at  Chseronea. 

Just  above  the  architrave,  and  resting  upon  it, 
is  the  tiny  frieze,  less  than  a  foot  high.  Upon 
this  is  sculptured  in  bas-relief  a  contest  between 
Bacchants  and  robbers.  The  form  of  the  frieze 
necessarily  breaks  up  the  fight  into  a  series  of 
groups.     Bacchos  is    seen  sitting,  and  fondling  a 


ATTIC  TRAGEDY.  9 

lion  or  panther.  Most  curious  of  all  are  several 
figures  of  robbers,  half  transformed  into  dolphins 
and  leaping  into  the  sea.  That  is,  more  than  two 
generations  after  the  great  tragic  writers  passed 
away,  a  Bacchic  myth  is  still  the  fitting  subject 
for  the  frieze  of  a  choric  prize-monument.  It  is, 
moreover,  a  very  old  myth  which  is  here  preserved, 
though  with  some  necessary  artistic  variations,  as 
will  be  seen  by  a  careful  comparison  with  the 
Homeric  Hymn  to  Dionysos  which  I  mentioned 
above,  and  of  which  I  will  now  give  a  translation. 

These  so-called  Homeric  Hymns  are  not  as  old  as 
the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  but  they  are  in  very  similar 
dialect  and  metrical  form,  and  some  of  them  are 
probably  as  early  as  any  extant  Greek  composi- 
tions except  the  poems  of  Homer  and  Hesiod. 
They  were  in  fact  a  set  of  preludes  used  by  the 
rhapsodes,  the  professional  declaimers  of  epic 
poetry,  and  are  addressed  to  the  various  gods  at 
whose  festivals,  or  in  whose  honor,  the  recitations 
were  held.  It  is  probably  safe  to  say  that  the 
Hymn  to  Dionysos  is  older  than  the  earliest  Greek 
drama  which  we  possess. 

DIONYSOS,    OR   THE   PIRATES. 

Glorious  Semele's  child  I  will  summon  to  mind,  Di- 
onysos ; 

How  he  appeared  on  the  brink  of  the  sea  forever-unrest- 
ing. 

On  a  projecting  crag,  assuming  the  guise  of  a  stripling 


10  THREE    DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

Blooming  in  youth  ;  and  in  beauty  his  dark  hair  floated 
about  him. 

Purple  the  cloak  he  was  wearing   across  his   vigorous 
shoulders. 
Presently  hove  in  sight  a  band  of  Tyrrhenian  pirates. 

Borne    in    a  well-rowed  vessel   along   the  wine-colored 
waters. 

Hither  their  evil  destiny  guided  them  !     When  they  be- 
held him, 

Unto  each  other  they  nodded :  then  forth  they  darted, 
and  straightway 

Seized  him  and  haled  him  aboard  their  vessel,  exultant 
in  spirit, 

Since  they  thought  him  a  child  of  kings  who  of  Zeus  are 
supported. 

Then  were  they  eager  to  bind  him  in  fetters  that  could 
not  be  sundered. 

Yet  he  was  held  not  with  bonds,  for  off  and  afar  did 
the  osiers 

Fall  from  his  hands  and  feet,  and  left  him  sitting  and 
smiling 

Out  of  his  dusky  eyes  !     But  when  their  pilot  beheld  it, 

Straightway  uplifting  his  voice  he  shouted  aloud  to  his 
comrades : 
"  Madmen !     Who  is  this  god  ye  would  seize  and  con- 
trol with  your  fetters  ? 

Mighty  is  he !     Our  well-rowed  ship  is  unable  to  hold 
him. 

Verily  this  is  Zeus,  or  else  the  archer  Apollo, 

Or,  it  may  be,  Poseidon :  —  for  nowise  perishing  mor- 
tals 

Does  he  resemble,  but  gods  who  make  their  home  on 
Olympos ! 


ATTIC  TRAGEDY.  11 

Bring  him,  I  pray  you,  again  to  the  darksome  shore  and 

release  him 
Straightway !     Lay  not  a  finger  upon  him,  lest  in  his 

anger 
He  may  arouse   the  impetuous   gusts  and   the   furious 

storm-wind." 
Thus   he  spoke,  but  the  captain  in  words  of  anger 

assailed  him : 
"  Fellow,  look  to  the  wind,  and  draw  at  the  sail  of  the 

vessel, 
Holding  the  cordage  in  hand  :  we  men  will  care  for  the 

captive. 
He  shall   come,   as    I   think,  to  Egypt,  or  may  be  to 

Cyprus, 
Or  to  the  Hyperboreans,   or  farther,  and  surely  shall 

tell  us 
Finally  who  are  his  friends,  and  reveal   to  us    all  his 

possessions, 
Name  us  his  brethren  too :   for  a  god  unto  us  has  be- 
trayed him." 
So  had  he  spoken,  and  raised  his  mast  and  the  sail  of 

his  vessel. 
Fairly  upon  their  sail  was   blowing  a  breeze,  and  the 

cordage 
Tightened :  and  presently  then  most  wondrous  chances 

befell  them ! 
First  of   all  things,  wine  through  the  black  impetuous 

vessel, 
Fragrant  and  sweet  to  the  taste,  was  trickling :  the  odor 

ambrosial 
Rose  in   the  air ;   and  terror  possessed  them  all  to  be- 
hold it. 
Presently  near  to  the  top  of  the  sail  a  vine  had  extended, 


12  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Winding  hither   and  thither,  with  many  a   cluster  de- 
pendent. 
Round  about  their  mast  an  ivy  was  duskily  twining, 
Rich  in  its  blossoms,  and  fair  was  the  fruit  that  had  risen 

upon  it. 
Every  rowlock  a  garland  wore. 

And  when  they  beheld  this 
Instantly  then   to  the  pilot  they  shouted   to  hurry  the 

vessel 
Near  to  the  land  :  but  the  god  appeared  as  a  lion  among 

them, 
Terrible,  high  on  the  bow,  and  loudly  he  roared  ;  and 

amidships 
Made  he  appear  to  their  eyes  a  shaggy-necked  bear  as  a 

portent. 
Eagerly  rose  she  erect,  and  high  on  the  prow  was  the 

lion 
Eying  them  grimly  askance.     To  the  stern  they  darted 

in  terror. 
There  about  their  pilot,  the  man  of  wiser  perception, 
Dazed  and  affrighted  they  stood  ;  and  suddenly  leaping 

upon  them, 
On  their  captain    he  seized.     They,  fleeing  from  utter 

destruction, 
Into  the  sacred  water  plunged,  as  they  saw  it,  together, 
Turning    to    dolphins.     The   god,   for  the   pilot  having 

compassion, 
Held  him  back,  and  gave   him  happiness,  speaking  as 

follows : 
"  Have  no  fear,  O  innocent  supplicant,  dear  to  my  spirit. 
Semele's  offspring  am  I,  Dionysos  the  leader  in  revels, 
Born  of  the  daughter  of   Cadmos,  to  Zeus  in  wedlock 

united." 


ATTIC    TRAGEDY.  13 

Greeting,  0  child  of  the  fair-faced  Semele  !  Never  the 
minstrel 

Who  is  forgetful  of  thee  may  fashion  a  song  that  is  pleas- 
ing! 

This  hymn,  then,  besides  being  one  of  the  earliest 
allusions  to  Dionysos  in  Greek  literature,  is  of 
peculiar  interest  to  us  as  it  preserves  a  legend 
which  evidently  continued  to  be  a  favorite  one  in 
Athens,  at  least  far  into  the  fourth  century,  b.  C. 

In  the  year  1862  the  great  Dionysiac  theatre 
itself  was  excavated.  Its  present  appearance  is 
well-known  from  photographs,  and  I  have  not  space 
to  describe  it  in  detail.  It  has  in  fact  been  so 
largely  remodeled  in  later  classical  times  that  it 
throws  little  light  on  the  unsettled  questions  in  re- 
gard to  theatre-construction  in  the  best  age.  Thus 
the  stage  we  now  see  there  is  brought  so  far  for- 
ward as  to  cut  off  the  entrance  for  the  chorus  from 
the  side  into  the  orchestra.  Indeed,  the  German 
investigators  are  now  engaged  in  demonstrating 
that  in  the  times  of  the  three  great  dramatists 
the  Athenian  theatre  had  no  elevated  stajje  at  all. 
But  I  mention  the  theatre  now  only  to  speak  of 
a  single  feature.  The  front  row  of  seats,  nearest 
the  orchestra,  consists  of  fine  marble  chairs  in- 
scribed with  the  titles  of  various  official  persons 
for  whom  they  were  reserved.  Nearly  all  the  per- 
sons thus  honored  are  priests  ;  the  central  and  by 
far  the  most  beautiful  of  these  chairs  is  inscribed 
IEPEI22  AIONY20Y  EAEYOEPE^S,  "for  the  priest 


14  THREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

of  Dionysos  of  Eleutherai "  (the  site  of  the  god's 
chief  temple).  The  inscription,  judging  from  the 
form  of  the  letters,  is  probably  four  hundred 
years  later  than  the  age  of  Pericles,  and  it  is  not 
likely  that  this  chair  itself  stood  in  the  theatre 
as  it  was  originally  constructed  in  the  fifth  cen- 
tury. But  it  serves  my  purpose  all  the  better,  to 
point  out  the  striking  fact  that  even  long  after 
Greece  was  a  Roman  province,  the  theatre  was 
still  not  a  mere  place  of  amusement,  but  a  sanctu- 
ary of  Dionysos. 

It  is  a  pity  we  cannot  believe  that  this  very  chair 
held  the  portly  form  of  Dionysos'  chief  priest  at  the 
Lenaean  festival  of  January,  405  B.  c,  when  the 
famous  comedy,  The  Frogs,  was  performed.  The 
two  great  tragic  writers  of  the  age,  Sophocles  and 
Euripides,  had  just  died  ;  and  in  this  play  Bacchos 
himself,  inconsolable  over  their  loss,  is  represented 
as  making  a  journey,  though  in  great  trepidation,  to 
Pluto's  realm,  to  beg  that  one  poet  may  be  restored 
to  him.  The  great  god  is  represented  as  a  ridicu- 
lous coward,  and  has  other  failings  attributed  to 
him  which  hardly  seem  to  indicate  any  reverence  or 
respect  on  Aristophanes'  part.  At  one  point  upon 
the  journey,  in  mortal  terror  from  a  spectre,  exist- 
ing apparently  only  in  the  fancy  of  his  mischievous 
slave,  who  is  playing  upon  the  cowardice  of  the 
god,  Dionysos  turns  to  the  fat  priest  who  sits  in 
state  in  the  orchestra  circle,  and  cries  out  to  him  to 
save  him  !  During  the  next  f e^  lines  Dionysos  is 
evidently  somewhere  in  hiding,  until  he  is  finally 


ATTIC   TRAGEDY.  15 

reassured  ;  and  some  commentators  have  supposed 
that  he  leaped  from  the  stage,  and  actually  took 
refuge  under  the  priest's  ample  robes. 

Attic  comedy  violated  all  the  proprieties  and  de- 
cencies. It  represents  a  world  of  its  own,  utterly 
and  grotesquely  impossible  ;  but  yet  comedy  also 
was  always  regarded  as  a  distinctly  religious  cere- 
monial. 

The  subject-matter  of  the  thirty-two  extant  trag- 
edies is  drawn  from  a  wide  circle  of  myths,  and 
many  of  them  are  without  the  slightest  allusion  to 
Bacchos.  But  the  dramatic  contest  always  contin- 
ued to  form  part  of  the  rites  at  his  festival.  The 
characters  upon  the  stage  were  usually  gods  or  the 
heroic  descendants  of  gods.  The  introduction  of 
recent  subjects  was  rare  and  unpopular,  as  may  be 
seen  from  the  story  told  of  Phrynichos,  a  contem- 
porary of  iEschylos.  Herodotos  relates  that  this 
poet  represented  on  the  stage  the  capture  of  the 
Greek  city  Miletos  by  the  Persians,  an  event 
which  had  occurred  only  a  few  years  before,  and 
that  the  Athenians,  after  weeping  copiously  as  a 
tribute  to  his  genius,  fined  him  heavily  for  "  remind- 
ing them  of  sorrows  of  their  own." 

The  Persians  of  ^Eschylos,  though  likewise 
founded  upon  the  recent  battle  by  Salamis,  is  an- 
other exception  which  proves  the  rule ;  for  the 
spirit  in  which  it  is  composed  makes  us  realize, 
even  better  than  does  the  highly  dramatic  story 
of  Herodotos,  how  soon  the  great  struggle   with 


16  THREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Xerxes  had  come  to  be  regarded  by  contemporary- 
Greeks  as  a  holy  war,  only  decided  in  their  favor, 
against  desperate  odds,  by  the  manifest  interposi- 
tion of  the  immortal  gods.  The  Persians  is  a  drama 
as  far  removed  from  the  ordinary  level  of  human 
life  as  the  Prometheus  itself.  It  may  be  remarked 
in  passing  that  no  Greek,  not  even  Themistocles, 
is  mentioned  by  name  in  the  play,  the  scene  being 
laid,  not  on  the  battle-field  at  all,  but  at  the  Persian 
court.  The  play  in  fact  represents  only  the  moral 
effect  of  the  tidings  of  disaster  at  the  Oriental  cap- 
ital. 

It  is  evident  that  Greek  tragedy  was  from  its 
origin  by  no  means  a  merely  realistic  picture  of 
actual  life.  Moreover,  the  immense  size  of  the 
open-air  Athenian  theatre,  the  uniform  dress  of 
the  few  actors,  who  played  successive  parts  with  a 
mere  change  of  masks,  the  tragic  buskin  which  in- 
creased the  natural  height  some  eighteen  inches,  — 
all  this  must  have  prevented  anything  like  an  elab- 
orate delineation  of  individual  character.  It  will 
have  occurred  to  the  reader  already  that  the  revival 
of  a  Greek  tragedy  precisely  as  it  was  performed 
in  Periclean  Athens  would  be  a  perilous  attempt, 
and  would  probably  produce  an  effect  far  from 
tragic  upon  a  modern  audience.  Indeed  the  laugh- 
ter-loving satirist  Lucian,  who  lived  some  six  centu- 
ries later  than  Euripides,  and  who  occupies  toward 
the  theology  and  traditions  of  Greek  paganism 
very  much  the  position  of  Cervantes  toward  the  cus- 
toms of  chivalry,  is  never  weary  of  poking  fun  at 


ATTIC   TRAGEDY.  17 

the  mask  and  buskin,  the  stiffness  and  pomp,  of  the 
tragic  stage.  And  yet  we  may  be  sure  that  in 
some  way  the  exquisite  taste  of  an  age  which  has 
left  us  such  perfect  literary,  architectural,  and 
plastic  masterpieces  gave  true  dignity  and  propri- 
ety also  to  these  dramatic  performances.  The  truth 
appears  to  be,  that  the  Attic  tragedy  would  have 
seemed  to  us  hardly  more  than  a  solemn  recitation 
in  costume,  little  more  realistic  than  the  declama- 
tion of  the  Homeric  poems  by  the  rhapsodes,  which 
was  also  a  favorite  accompaniment  of  the  state  fes- 
tivals. 

There  was  probably  little  scenery,  as  we  under- 
stand the  word.  The  action  usually  took  place  be- 
fore a  palace  or  temple,  which  was  represented  at 
the  back  of  the  stage  ;  and  this  setting  was  rarely 
changed  in  the  course  of  the  play,  except  that  some- 
times the  doors  were  thrown  open,  to  disclose  a 
scene  or  tableau  within  the  edifice. 

To  .ZEschylos  and  Sophocles,  at  any  rate,  the 
tragic  representation  was  a  stately  religious  cere- 
monial. The  choice  of  subject,  the  spirit  in  which 
the  drama  was  regarded  by  poet  and  spectator,  the 
prominence  of  the  choric  and  musical  features, 
might  rather  remind  us  of  an  oratorio  than  of  a 
modern  play. 

There  are  only  three  Attic  writers  of  tragedy 
who  are  much  more  than  names  to  us.  They  all 
belong  to  the  great  fifth  century,  and  they  fitly 
represent  the  three  great  periods  of  that  century. 
iEschylos  is  of  the  heroic  generation  who  beat  back 


18  THREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

the  Persian  at  Marathon,  Salamis,  and  Plata?a. 
Sophocles  is  one  of  the  brightest  stars  in  the 
galaxy  about  Pericles.  And  Euripides  is  to  a  great 
extent  the  representative  of  the  terrible  break- 
ing-up  with  which  the  century  closes :  the  downfall 
of  Athens'  political  greatness,  the  decay  of  living 
faith  in  a  divine  providence,  the  lower  morality 
and  debased  social  conditions. 

John  Addington  Symonds,  in  his  valuable  book 
on  the  Greek  poets,  compares  these  three  tragic 
authors  with  the  trio  of  painters,  Giotto,  Raphael, 
Correggio.  In  the  first,  the  ideas  struggling  for 
expression  are  almost  too  great  for  the  somewhat 
crude  and  undisciplined  powers  of  the  artist ;  in 
the  second,  thought  and  utterance  are  in  perfect 
harmony  ;  the  third  arrives  late,  to  find  the  noblest 
themes  already  adequately  used,  and,  with  powers 
of  expression  only  too  facile,  often  seems  to  be  cast- 
ing about  for  worthy  subjects  upon  which  to  employ 
them. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  Euripides,  that  his  con- 
temporary Aristophanes,  the  greatest  comic  play- 
wright and  satirist  who  ever  lived,  and  yet  a  furi- 
ous conservative,  saw  —  or  pretended  to  see  —  in 
Euripides  the  completest  type  of  all  that  was  hate- 
ful and  harmful  in  the  spirit  of  the  new  age.  The 
world  ever  since  has  been  too  ready  to  echo  Aris- 
tophanes' jibes  and  sneers,  and  to  put  Euripides 
aside,  with  scanty  attention,  as  the  poet  of  the 
decadence.  ^Eschylos  and  Sophocles,  if  not  so  well 
known  as  a  lover  of  Greek  literature  might  desire, 


ATTIC    TRAGEDY.  19 

are  at  least  known  and  honored  in  their  best  work. 
iEschylos'  masterpiece  was  probably  the  group  of 
dramas  on  Prometheus.  The  surviving-  play  of 
this  trilogy  has  been  translated  into  vigorous  Eng- 
lish by  Mrs.  Browning  and  also  by  Augusta  Web- 
ster, not  to  mention  less  successful  masculine  at- 
tempts. The  drama  of  Sophocles  best  known  and 
most  read  in  modern  times  is  the  Antigone,  a  wor- 
thy example  of  his  noblest  style.  All  the  extant 
plays  of  2Eschylos  and  Sophocles  have  been  repeat- 
edly rendered  into  English  by  competent  hands. 
Of  Euripides  this  is  by  no  means  true. 

The  number  of  students  is  evidently  increasing 
who  believe  the  youngest  of  the  three  great  tragic 
poets  to  have  been  a  rare  and  precious  genius,  and, 
on  the  whole,  a  high-minded  and  aspiring  artist, 
upon  whom  too  little  attention  has  been  bestowed. 
It  is  moreover  easier  for  modern  men  to  become 
earnestly  interested  in  him.  What  the  ancients 
most  condemned  in  Euripides,  especially  his  dissat- 
isfaction with  the  national  conception  of  the  gods, 
and  his  tendency  away  from  the  divine  and  heroic 
myths  toward  more  simply  human  subjects,  —  these 
very  traits  bring  him  nearer  to  our  sympathies ; 
and  perhaps  if  we  sum  up  in  a  phrase  the  impres- 
sion which  the  three  great  tragic  poets  make  upon 
modern  men,  we  may  call  iEschylos  Titanic,  Soph- 
ocles sculpturesque,  and  Euripides,  as  the  Brown- 
ings and  others  have  named  him  already,  the  hu- 
man. 

He  has,  doubtless,  serious  faults.     At  least,  no 


20  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

one  ever  studies  him  closely  without  being  driven 
at  times  into  a  feeling  of  earnest  opposition  to  him. 
I  am  no  indiscriminate  eulogist  of  the  third  great 
dramatist.  I  only  say,  like  Themistocles,  "  Strike, 
but  hear !  "     He  is  at  least  well  worth  knowing. 


THE  ALKESTIS. 

The  Alkestis,  the  Medea,  and  the  Hippolytos 
are  the  three  earliest  dramas  which  have  been  pre- 
served, though  even  they  are  by  no  means  essays 
from  a  'prentice  hand.  Euripides'  first  appearance 
as  a  dramatist  was  in  the  year  455  b.  c,  and  he 
continued  to  produce  rapidly  for  half  a  century, 
until  his  death  in  406.  The  Alkestis  was  per- 
formed in  438,  seventeen  years  after  his  earliest 
attempt.  The  Medea  was  played  in  431,  the  Hip- 
polytos in  428.  These  three  are  not  only  unsur- 
passed in  interest  and  power  by  his  other  extant 
plays,  but  are  in  all  likelihood  as  satisfactory  ex- 
amples as  could  have  been  chosen  to  represent  the 
poet's  earlier  art.  At  any  rate,  we  must  accept 
thankfully  the  precious  relics  of  the  ancient  world 
which  the  capricious  centuries  have  permitted  to 
drift  down  to  our  time,  and  not  linger  too  sadly 
over  the  treasures  which  lie  buried  beyond  recovery 
under  "  the  tide  whose  waves  are  years." 

The  scholiast,  the  unknown  Greek  annotator  of 
the  play,  mentions  that  the  Alkestis  was  performed 
fourth  in  the  series  of  four  dramas  presented  to- 
gether by  the  poet.  That  is  a  most  important 
statement,  as  a  glance  in  retrospect  will  show. 


22  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

The  members  of  the  original  chorus  at  the  Bac- 
chic festivals  were  dressed  as  satyrs.  This  was  ap- 
propriate in  the  worship  of  a  god  who  personified 
the  chief  of  the  rude  natural  powers.  As  the  sub- 
jects of  tragedy  widened  to  include  other  myths 
than  those  of  Dionysos,  the  need  of  a  fitting  chorus 
for  each  play  was  felt,  and  finally  gratified.  Ac- 
cordingly, in  the  Persians  the  chorus  consists  of 
aged  noblemen  of  the  court ;  in  the  Prometheus,  of 
ocean-nymphs  sympathizing  with  the  sufferer  who 
is  chained  upon  the  cliff  ;  and  so  on.  But  the  con- 
servatism of  the  populace  demanded  a  retention  in 
some  form  of  their  capering  favorites.  Accord- 
ingly, it  seems,  a  compromise  was  effected,  and 
even  the  grave  JEschylos  followed  his  trilogy  of 
connected  dramas  with  a  lighter  afterpiece  suited  to 
the  satyr-chorus.  Although  in  Sophocles'  time  the 
three  serious  dramas  presented  at  once  were  as  a 
rule  no  longer  connected  in  plot,  yet  the  custom  of 
offering  three  tragedies  and  a  satyric  afterpiece 
continued.  Only  one  such  afterpiece  has  come 
down  to  us,  the  Cyclops  of  Euripides.  This  has 
been  translated  into  English  by  the  poet  Shelley, 
and  will  be  found  among  his  collected  works.  It 
will  be  seen  that  it  is  not  a  comedy.  The  Greek 
comedy  was  of  a  totally  different  type,  and  had  a 
wholly  distinct  history.  The  satyrs  are  somewhat 
frolicsome,  and,  in  the  Greek  original,  occasionally 
vulgar ;  but  the  characters  upon  the  stage,  Odys- 
seus, for  instance,  are  not  undignified  nor  in  any 
way  ridiculous. 


THE  ALKESTIS.  23 

The  Alkestis,  then,  is  an  after-piece,  though  by- 
no  means  of  the  usual  character.  It  is  apparently 
either  a  bold  experiment  on  the  popular  good  will, 
or  else  it  was  written  at  a  time  when  the  rude  satyr- 
drama  proper  was  passing  quite  out  of  fashion. 
There  are  some  scenes  in  our  play  which  certain 
commentators  are  pleased  to  call  comic,  though  I 
hope  my  readers  will  not  agree  with  them.  The 
finale  is  a  happy  one  certainly,  and  the  touch  of 
the  poet  throughout  the  latter  half  is  light.  It  be- 
longs to  the  same  special  class  of  romantic  dramas, 
neither  tragic  nor  comic,  with  As  You  Like  It, 
Merchant  of  Venice,  The  Winter's  Tale.  Espe- 
cially with  the  last  scene  of  The  Winter's  Tale, 
it  may  be  very  profitably  compared. 

And  now,  for  the  plot.  Apollo's  mortal  son, 
Asclepios,  had  incurred  the  displeasure  of  Zeus  by 
raising  the  dead  to  life,  and  had  perished  by  the 
divine  thunderbolt.  In  return,  Apollo  slew  the 
Cyclops,  who  forged  the  fatal  missile,  and  in  con- 
sequence was  banished  from  heaven,  and  reduced 
to  servitude  on  earth,  under  the  good  young  king 
Admetos,  of  Pherai  in  Southern  Thessaly.  Aided 
by  the  divine  archer,  this  prince  has  won  the 
lovely  Alkestis  of  Iolcos  away  from  a  host  of 
suitors,  fulfilling  her  father's  mad  demand,  that  his 
future  son-in-law  should  appear  in  a  chariot  drawn 
by  a  lion  and  a  boar.  Artemis,  whose  altars  the 
young  bridegroom  in  his  bliss  had  forgotten  to 
honor,  sent  a  coil  of  terrible  serpents  to  appall 
them  in  the  nuptial-bower.     But  Apollo  appeased 


24  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

his  sister,  and  rescued  his  beloved  master  and 
friend.  Finally  Apollo  has  given  a  most  won- 
drous proof  of  his  power,  by  averting  the  death  of 
Admetos  on  the  day  appointed  by  the  Fates.  This 
play  describes  the  remarkable  occurrences  of  that 
day.  We  do  not  know  how  much  of  this  myth  was 
familiar  to  the  Athenian  audience.  Homer  has 
only  a  passing  mention  of  Admetos  and  Alkestis, 
as  the  parents  of  Eumelos,  who  in  the  Iliad  is  a 
young  warrior,  in  our  play  a  little  child.  This  I 
mention  partly  because  it  dates  these  events  — 
after  a  fashion  —  as  occurring  a  few  years  before 
the  Trojan  war.  The  poet  at  once  unfolds  his 
story  in  outline  in  the  prologue.  The  ancient 
dramatist  does  not  rely  upon  novelties  or  surprises 
in  the  plot.  Usually,  indeed,  the  myth  was  so 
familiar  that  no  important  variation  would  have 
been  tolerated. 

The  play  begins,  apparently  in  the  early  morn- 
ing of  the  eventful  day,  with  the  appearance  of 
Apollo,  coming  forth  from  the  palace  of  Admetos, 
before  which  the  action  takes  place.  He  has  per- 
haps reassumed  something  of  his  divine  beauty 
and  splendor,  as  he  seems  to  be  at  the  end  of  his 
term  of  servitude-  He  speaks,  addressing  the 
palace. 

PROLOGUE. 

afollo  (appearing  from  the  palace). 
Home  of  Admetos,  wherein  I  have  borne 
To  accept  a  menial's  fare,  although  a  god ! 


THE  ALKESTIS.  25 

Zeus  was  the  cause,  who  slew  Asclepios, 
My  son,  with  lightnings  hurled  against  his  breast. 
Thereat  of  coui-se  enraged,  I  slew  the  Cyclops 
Who  forged  the  holy  flame  ;  for  this  my  sire 
In  penance  made  me  serve  a  mortal  man. 
Hither  I  came,  and  for  my  host  have  watched 
The  kine,  and  saved  his  house  until  to-day ; 

—  For  I,  upright,  found  in  him  an  upright  man, 
The  son  of  Pheres,  whom  I  have  saved  from  death, 
Cheating  the  Fates  :  —  the  goddesses  declared 
Admetos  might  escape  from  present  death, 
Bartering  another  life  to  those  below. 

He  tested  all  his  kin  in  turn :  his  sire, 

The  aged  mother  too  that  gave  him  birth, 

And  found  not  one  was  willing,  —  save  his  wife, — 

To  die  for  him,  and  see  the  light  no  more. 

And  she,  upheld  in  arms,  with  failing  strength 

Goes  through  the  house,  for  on  this  very  day 

She  is  doomed  to  perish,  and  depart  from  life. 

—  And  lest  pollution  come  to  me  within, 
I  leave  the  shelter  of  this  well-loved  hall. 

Enter  Death. 
At  this  moment  the  god  beholds,  approaching  the 
palace,  the  grisly  phantom  from  whose  pollution  he 
is  fleeing,  and  remarks  upon  his  coming  in  lines 
which  serve  as  an  introduction  for  Death  (Tha- 
natos)  upon  the  stage. 

—  And  yonder,  near  at  hand,  I  see,  is  Death, 
Priest  of  the  dead,  who  now  to  Hades'  realm 

Shall  lead  her  down.     Prompt  to  the  time  he  comes, 
Watching  the  day  when  she  is  doomed  to  die. 

Death  bursts  into  a  vehement  complaint  against 


^       26  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

his    arch-enemy,    whom   he    instantly    suspects   of 
some  plot  to  cheat  him  once  more  of  his  due. 

DEATH. 

Ah!  Ah! 

Why  art  thou  at  the  gates,  and  why  lurkest  thou  here, 

O  Phoibos  ?     Thou  wrongest  the  shades  of  their  due, 

Setting  off  for  thine  own,  and  barring  my  way  ! 

Not  content  to  have  rescued  Admetos  from  fate, 

Beguiling  the  Moirai  with  crafty  device, 

Over  her  too  thou  watchest  with  arrows  and  bow 

Who  has  promised  to  die  in  his  stead  to  release 

Her  husband,  —  the  daughter  of  Pelias  ! 

Now  begins  a  rapid  interchange  of  epigrammatic 
single-line  speeches,  of  which  our  play  is  especially 
full,  and  which  Mr.  Lowell  somewhere  likens  to 
the  thrust  and  parry  of  a  pair  of  skillful  fencers. 

APOLLO. 

Fear  not !  Wise  reasons,  and  the  right,  are  mine. 

DEATH. 

If  right  be  thine,  what  need  then  of  the  bow  ? 

APOLLO. 

It  is  my  custom  ever  thus  to  walk. 

DEATH. 

Ay,  and  unrighteously  to  aid  this  house  ! 

APOLLO. 

I  grieve  me  for  the  sorrows  of  my  friend. 

DEATH. 

And  wilt  thou  part  me  from  this  second  prey  ? 

APOLLO. 

'T  was  not  by  force  I  rescued  him  from  thee. 

DEATH. 

Why  is  he  then  above,  not  under  ground  ? 


THE  ALKESTJS.  27 

APOLLO. 

His  wife  has  ransomed  him,  for  whom  thou  'rt  come. 

DEATH. 

Ay,  and  will  lead  her  down  beneath  the  earth. 

APOLLO. 

Take  her  and  go !     I  know  not  how  to  win  thee  — 

DEATH. 

To  slay  those  whom  I  should  ?     That  is  my  task  ! 

APOLLO. 

Nay,  to  take  those  to  whom  Death  needs  must  come. 

(The  meaning  is,  that  death  is  inevitable  for  the 
old  indeed,  but  not  for  the  young.) 

DEATH. 

I  understand  thy  words,  and  thy  desire. 

APOLLO. 

Can  then  Alkestis  nowise  reach  old  age  ? 

DEATH. 

It  cannot  be.     I  too  enjoy  my  dues. 

APOLLO. 

'T  is  but  a  single  soul  that  thou  canst  take. 

DEATH. 

If  men  die  young,  my  glory  is  the  more ! 

APOLLO. 

If  she  die  old,  the  rites  shall  sumptuous  be. 

DEATH. 

Phoibos,  thy  law  were  made  to  aid  the  rich ! 

APOLLO. 

What  is  't  thou  sayst  ?     I  knew  not  thou  wert  wise  ! 

DEATH. 

They  who  had  means  would  purchase  length  of  years. 

APOLLO. 

—  It  does  not  please  thee,  then,  to  grant  this  boon  ? 


28  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

DEATH. 

Indeed  it  does  not,  and  thou  knowst  my  ways,  — 

APOLLO. 

Hateful  to  men,  and  by  the  gods  abhorred  ! 

DEATH. 

Not  all  thou  shouldst  not  have  shalt  thou  secure  ! 

Apollo  (aside,  departing). 
Ay,  but  thou  shalt  be  checked,  although  so  fierce, 
So  mighty  a  hero  comes  to  Pheres'  home, 
Sent  by  Eurystheus  on  the  quest  for  steeds 
Unto  the  wintry  fields  of  Thrace ;  and  he, 
Being  entertained  within  Admetos'  halls, 
Shall  wrest  by  force  this  lady  from  thy  grasp. 
And  so  thou  shalt  receive  no  thanks  from  us, 
But  yet  shalt  do  our  will,  and  win  our  hate ! 

death  (aside,  departing). 
By  many  words  thou  shalt  not  gain  the  more. 
The  lady  shall  go  down  to  Hades'  realm. 
I  pass  to  consecrate  her  with  my  sword. 
He  from  whose  head  this  brand  hath  shorn  a  hair, 
Is  thus  devoted  to  the  gods  below  ! 

[Exeunt,  Death  entering  the  palace. 

Here  ends  the  prologue,  which  technically  in- 
cludes everything  previous  to  the  entrance  of  the 
chorus. 

From  this  point  onward,  the  supernatural  ele- 
ment fades  more  and  more  into  the  background, 
while  the  poet  appeals  to  those  purely  human  emo- 
tions in  which  he  evidently  took  most  delight. 
One  object,  no  doubt,  in  beginning  his  drama  with 
such  a  scene  as  this,  was  to  satisfy  the  vague  jret 
jealous  and  easily  startled  orthodoxy  of  his  pop- 


THE  ALKEST1S.  29 

ular  audience.  At  the  same  time,  he  was  quite 
aware  that  his  more  thoughtful  hearers  would  con- 
trast the  helplessness  of  Apollo  at  this  crisis  with 
the  successful  prowess  of  the  thoroughly  human 
Heracles :  for  we  must  insist  on  ascribing  to  the 
agnostic  poet,  the  friend  and  favorite  author  of  the 
arch-skeptic  Socrates,  as  earnest  and  deadly  an  in- 
tent against  the  very  existence  of  some  of  his  own 
characters  as  can  be  found  in  Lucian  -himself.  If 
these  attacks  are  in  general  cautiously  and  even 
timidly  veiled  under  a  pretense  of  pious  orthodoxy, 
the  fate  of  Socrates  may  guide  us  to  the  true  rea- 
son. 

The  Parodos,  or  entrance-song  of  the  chorus,  is 
in  the  Alkestis  not  purely  lyrical,  but  intermingled 
with  passages  of  lively  recitative.  Moreover,  the 
chorus  of  Pheraean  citizens  is  evidently  divided 
into  two  groups,  who,  probably  through  their  lead- 
ers' mouths,  carry  on  a  conversation  with  each 
other.  During  this  scene  they  are  anxiously 
watching  the  royal  palace,  and  there  is  doubtless 
some  movement  and  pantomimic  acting  to  indicate 
their  solicitude,  carried  on  however  with  such  re- 
serve and  dignity  as  characterize  the  old  men  in 
the  Panathenaic  procession  upon  the  Parthenon 
frieze. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  fondness  of  the 
Athenians  for  rich  and  varied  color  was  abun- 
dantly gratified,  here  as  elsewhere.  Indeed  it  is  in 
this  matter  of  color,  more  than  in  anything  else, 
that  recent  discoveries  make  it  necessary  to  correct 


30  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

the  traditional  ideas  of  the  Occident  in  regard  to 
Greek  taste  in  art. 

The  opening  lines  are  in  the  lively  or  anapaestic 
recitative,  —  which  was  used  in  the  first  speech  of 
Thanatos,  and  is  generally  employed  in  the  more 
excited  dialogue  instead  of  the  slower  iambics. 

PARODOS. 
Enter  Chorus,  from  the  city. 

CHORUS   A. 

Pray  why  is  there  silence  in  front  of  the  hall, 
And  why  is  the  home  of  Admetos  so  still  ? 

CHORUS   B. 

Not  one  of  the  friends  of  the  house  is  at  hand, 

Who  would  tell  us  if  we  are  to  mourn  for  the  queen 

As  dead,  or  if  living  she  looks  on  the  sun, 

Alkestis,  the  daughter  of  Pelias,  who  seems 

To  me,  and  to  all  men  that  dwell  in  the  land, 

The  noblest  of  wives 

To  have  proven  herself  to  her  husband. 

The  following  stanza  was  sung,  as  the  metre 
shows. 

CHORUS  A. 

Is  there  a  sound  of  sighing  heard. 
Or  beating  hands  within  the  halls, 
Or  wailing  as  if  all  were  done  ? 
Not  even  a  servant  of  the  house 
Is  standing  now  beside  the  gates. 
0  Paian,  comforter  in  grief, 

Woidd  thou  might  st  now  appear! 

Paian  is  an  epithet  of  Apollo  as  the  god  of 
healing:.     The  dialogue  is  resumed. 


THE  ALKESTIS.  31 

CHORUS    B. 

They  would  not  be  silent  if  she  were  dead ! 

CHORUS   A. 

From  the  palace  she  surely  has  not  been  borne  ! 

CHORUS   B. 

Why  so  ?     I  am  troubled.     What  cheers  then  thee  ? 

CHORUS   A. 

Without  mourners  Admetos  would  never  have  held 
The  rites  for  his  noble  lady  ! 

The  second  semi-chorus  now  sing  a  stanza  of 
precisely  the  same  metrical  structure  as  the  former 
one.  The  two  were  undoubtedly  set  to  the  same 
music.  Such  companion  stanzas  are  known  as  a 
strophe  and  antistrophe. 

CHORUS   B. 

Nor  do  I  see  before  the  gates 
The  vase  of  water,  as  is  fit 
At  gates  where  men  are  lying  dead. 
~"~No  hair  lies  shorn  before  the  door, 
That  falls  in  mourning  for  the  lost  ; 
Nor  do  I  hear  the  doleful  beat 
Of  youthful  women's  hands. 

CHORUS   A. 

And  this  is  the  day  of  her  doom ! 

CHORUS   B. 

What  is  it  thou  sayst ! 

CHORUS   A. 

On  which  she  shall  pass  to  the  under-world ! 

CHORUS   B. 

Thou  hast  touched  my  heart,  thou  hast  touched  my 
soul ! 


32  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

CHORUS   A. 

It  is  fitting,  when  good  men  are  wasting  away, 

That  all  should  grieve 

"Who  ever  were  nohle  accounted  ! 

The  chorus  have  now,  apparently,  taken  up  their 
permanent  position  in  the  centre  of  the  orchestra. 
Here  stood  the  Thymele,  originally  the  altar  of 
Dionysos.  They  chant  the  closing  stanzas  of  the 
Parodos. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

No  place  oh  earth  is  found 
Where  one  a  ship  may  send, 
Not  even  to  Lykian  lands 
Nor  to  the  desert  seat 
Of  Amnion's  oracle, 
And  save  the  doomed  life. 
Implacable  fate  is  drawing  near, 
And  at  the  altars  of  the  gods 
I  know  not  unto  whom, 
Of  priests  to  turn  for  aid. 

In  the  next  stanza  there  is  an  allusion  to  Ascle- 
pios,  Apollo's  son. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

If  only  on  the  light 

The  son  of  Phoibos  looked 

With  living  eyes  to-day  ! 

Then  would  she  come  to  us, 

Leaving  the  dark  abode 

And  gates  of  Hades'  realm. 

The  dead  he  raised,  ere  on  him  fell, 

Zeus-hurled,  the  lightning's  fiery  bolt:  — 


THE  ALKESTIS.  33 

But  now,  xvhat  hope  of  life 
Is  left  for  me  to  seek  ? 

CHORUS. 

Already  our  lords  have  every  rite  performed : 
At  every  divinity's  altars 

Have  offerings  dripping  with  blood  been  made  ; 
Nor  is  there  a  cure  for  our  sorrows. 

The  first  Episode  follows  the  Parodos.  It  is 
as  simply  planned  as  possible.  It  consists  merely 
in  the  appearance,  from  the  palace,  of  a  maid- 
servant, who,  after  satisfying  the  anxious  inquiries 
of  the  chorus,  reenters  to  announce  their  arrival. 

FIRST  EPISODE. 

CHORUS. 

But  yonder  comes  a  servant  from  the  house, 
With  streaming  eyes  :  —  what  hap  am  I  to  hear  ? 

Enter  Maidservant. 
To  grieve,  if  aught  of  ill  hefall  our  lords, 
Is  pardonable  ;  but  if  thy  mistress  be 
Alive,  or  dead  already,  we  fain  would  know. 

MAIDSERVANT. 

Living,  —  and  dead,  —  't  is  in  thy  power  to  say. 

CHORUS. 

How  can  the  same  one  be  alive  and  dead  ? 

MAIDSERVANT. 

She  sinks  already,  and  her  life  is  breaking. 

CHORUS. 

O  noble  soul,  how  noble  she  thou  losest ! 

The  loyal  old  man's  first  thought  is  even  now  for 
his  king ;  but  the  maid,  true  to  her  brave  and  lov- 
ing mistress,  responds : 


34  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

MAIDSERVANT. 

My  master  knows  not,  till  he  mourns,  her  worth. 

CHORUS. 

Is  there  no  longer  hope  to  save  her  life  ? 

MAIDSERVANT. 

None,  for  the  destined  day  has  summoned  her. 

CHORUS. 

And  are  the  fitting  preparations  made  ? 

MAIDSERVANT. 

The  adornments  for  the  funeral  are  ready. 

CHORUS. 

Well,  she  must  know  she  dies  the  first  in  fame 
And  best  of  wives  by  far  beneath  the  sun. 

Even  this  seems  but  cold  praise  to  the  maidser- 
vant, who  eagerly  replies : 

MAIDSERVANT. 

And  how  not  best  ?     Who  pray  shall  vie  with  her  ? 
What  must  the  woman  be  who  would  surpass  her  ? 
Or  who  shall  better  prove  she  loves  her  lord 
Than  by  her  willingness  to  die  for  him  ? 

This  all  our  city  knows,  but  thou  shalt  hear 
With  wonder  what  she  has  done  within  her  halls. 
For  when  she  knew  the  fatal  day  was  come, 
She  bathed  in  river  water  her  white  flesh, 
And  from  her  chests  of  cedar  choosing  forth 
Raiment  and  ornament  she  decked  her  fair, 
And  standing  prayed  before  the  hearthstone  thus  : 
"  0  Goddess,  —  for  I  pass  beneath  the  earth,  — 
Here  at  the  last,  a  suppliant,  I  entreat 
Rear  thou  my  children,  and  on  him  bestow 
A  loving  wife,  on  her  a  noble  spouse. 
And  may  they  not,  as  I  their  mother  die, 


THE  ALKESTIS.  35 

Untimely  fall,  but  in  their  native  land, 

And  fortunate,  fill  out  a  happy  life." 

And  all  the  shrines  throughout  Admetos'  halls 

She    sought,  and    decked    with   boughs,  and   prayed 

thereto, 
Breaking  the  foliage  of  the  myrtle  twigs. 
Nor  wept,  nor  groaned  ;  the  sorrow  near  at  hand 
Changed  not  the  lovely  color  of  her  face. 
Then  hastened  to  her  marriage-chamber  and  bed  ; 
There  she  indeed  shed  tears,  and  thus  she  spoke  : 
"  O  couch,  where  I  put  off  my  maiden  zone 
For  this  my  husband,  for  whose  sake  I  die, 
Farewell.    I  hate  thee  not :  thou  hast  destroyed 
Me  only ;  slow  to  leave  my  spouse  and  thee 
I  die.    To  thee  another  wife  will  come, 
Not  truer,  though  perchance  more  fortunate." 
And  knelt,  and  kissed,  and  with  the  gushing  tears 
That  from  her  eyelids  fell  the  bed  was  moist. 

When  she  was  sated  with  her  many  tears, 
In  headlong  haste  she  hurried  from  the  spot, 
But  often  turned  her  as  she  left  the  room, 
And  darted  toward  her  nuptial  couch  once  more. 
Her  children,  clinging  to  the  mother's  robe, 
Were  weeping  ;  taking  in  her  arms  she  kissed 
The  two  in  turn,  as  though  about  to  die. 
And  all  the  servants  wept  throughout  the  halls, 
Pitying  their  mistress  ;  and  she  gave  her  hand 
To  everyone  ;  not  one  was  there  so  base 
But  she  did  greet  him,  and  by  him  was  hailed. 

Such  are  the  sorrows  in  Admetos'  home. 
Death  would  have  made  an  end  ;  but  now,  escaped, 
He  suffers  pain  never  to  be  forgot. 


36  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

CHORUS. 

And  does  Admetos  in  his  grief  lament, 

Since  from  his  noble  spouse  he  needs  must  part  ? 

MAIDSERVANT. 

He  weeps,  embracing  his  dear  wife,  and  prays 

She  may  be  spared  :  asking  what  cannot  be  ; 

For  she,  enfeebled,  pines  and  wastes  away, 

A  pitiable  burden  in  his  arms. 

And  yet,  although  the  breath  of  life  is  low, 

Upon  the  sunlight  still  she  fain  would  look. 

But  I  am  going,  and  will  announce  your  presence. 

Not  all  are  so  devoted  to  their  kings 

As  faithfully  in  grief  to  hold  to  them  ;  — 

But  thou  art  to  my  lords  a  friend  of  old. 

In  spite  of  the  absolute  simplicity  and  natural- 
ness of  this  brief  scene,  or  perhaps  indeed  for  that 
very  reason,  it  is  most  successful  in  the  purpose  for 
which  it  is  evidently  intended,  and  our  warmest 
sympathy  is  aroused  for  the  heroic  queen,  just  be- 
fore she  herself  comes  forth  upon  the  stage.  Es- 
pecially is  it  a  touch  of  genius  when  the  brave 
motherly  soul  pours  forth  her  most  earnest  prayers 
at  the  shrine  of  Hestia  (the  Romans'  Vesta),  the 
protectress  of  home. 

After  the  maid  returns  to  the  palace,  the  chorus 
sing  the  first  Stasimon,  or  regular  lyrical  inter- 
mezzo. It  consists  of  a  despairing  prayer  to  Apollo, 
and  almost  a  dirge  for  the  queen. 


THE  ALKESTIS.  37 

FIRST  STASIMON. 

Alas  !    What,  0  Zeus,  ivhence  our  aid  in  ivoe  ? 
What  rescue  from  calamities,  falling  now   upon  our 

kings  ? 
Will  someone  appear  with  tidings,  or 
Donning  at  once  our  robes  of  black 
Ought  we  to  shear  our  locks  away  ? 
Certain  is  it,  friends,  certain!     Ay,  and  yet 
Let  us  pray  unto  the  gods  ;  mightiest  is  the  power  di- 
vine. 
0  Paian,  lord  ! 

Discover  for  Admetos  some  escape  from  woe! 
We  do  beseech  thee,  grant  it,  since  already 
This  thou  didst,  and  now 
Bring  us  salvation  again  from  deaths 
And  repel  bloodthirsty  Hades  ! 

Alas  !    Woe  is  mine  !  bitter,  bitter  woe  ! 
0  Pheres1  child,  how  great  thy  loss,  being  of  thy  wife 

bereft  ! 
A  reason,  enough  and  more,  is  this 
Why  thou  shouldst  seek  to  end  thy  life, 
Hither  by  highhung  noose  or  sword  ! 
Surely,  since  a  dear,  best-beloved  wife 
Lying  low  upon  her  bier  thou  this  very  day  shalt  see. 
Behold  !     Behold  ! 
She  is  coming  from  the  house,  and  with  her  comes  her 

lord  ! 
0  land  of  Pherai,  cry  aloud  lamenting 
Her,  the  noblest  wife, 
Who  fading  p>asses  under  earth, 
To  Hades,  the  rider  beneath  us  ! 


38  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

The  palace-doors  are  now  again  about  to  swing 
open,  and  the  two  actors  employed  in  the  simple 
action  of  the  drama  are  to  appear  again  in  the 
characters  of  Alkestis  and  Admetos.  This  would 
be  the  fitting  place  to  introduce  some  apology  for  a 
wellknown  weakness  of  the  plot,  —  the  cowardice 
and  selfishness  of  King  Admetos.  But  the  truth 
is,  I  detest  him  so  heartily  that  I  am  unwilling  to 
say  anything  for  him.  He  is  utterly  lacking  in  the 
chief  essentials  for  any  man  who  aspires  to  rule 
over  men,  —  unselfishness  and  courage.  He  is  a 
craven,  and  no  king. 

But  when  Euripides  omits  to  make  any  direct 
effort  to  defend  his  royal  hero,  we  must  not  has- 
tily ascribe  it  to  inability  or  dislike.  The  poet  prob- 
ably did  not  feel  that  Admetos  needed  any  special 
apology.  If  he  had  elaborated  one,  it  would  doubt- 
less have  been  upon  the  ground  that  the  king's  life 
was  infinitely  more  valuable  than  any  other  man's, 
and  certainly  than  any  woman's,  could  be. 

The  ingenuity  of  the  modern  imitators  of  the 
Alkestis  has  been  largely  devoted  to  palliating  the 
cowardice  of  Admetos.  The  favorite  device  is  to 
let  Alkestis  make  the  arrangement,  through  Apollo, 
to  die  in  the  stead  of  her  husband,  without  the 
knowledge  of  the  latter,  who  is  powerless  to  reverse 
the  compact  when  he  learns  of  it.  But  as  for  Eu- 
ripides, he  either  had  no  idea  of  making  a  heroic 
figure  in  any  sense  out  of  his  Admetos,  or,  as  I 
rather  incline  to  believe,  he  did  not  regard  des- 
perate eagerness  to  save  one's  own  life  as  a  fatal 
weakness. 


THE  ALKESTIS.  39 

With  all  the  dignity  and  decorous  reserve  of  the 
figures  which  pass  before  us  on  the  Greek  stage 
and  in  Greek  history,  there  is  something  curiously 
naked  and  frank,  at  times,  in  their  avowal  of  natu- 
ral motives  and  passions.  We  who  inherit  in  part 
the  manners  and  phrases  of  chivalry  must  not  be 
too  sure  that  the  springs  of  our  own  actions  are 
always  loftier,  merely  because  it  is  no  longer  con- 
ventional openly  to  avow  the  coarser  motives. 

In  this  case  the  truth  was  stated  to  us  as  bluntly 
as  possible  in  the  prologue : 

' '  He  tested  all  his  kin  in  turn  :  his  sire, 
The  aged  mother  too  that  gave  him  birth !  " 

SECOND  EPISODE. 

One  of  the  old  men  who  compose  the  chorus  re- 
marks : 

CHORUS. 

I  never  will  say  that  wedlock  brings 

More  joy  than  grief  ;  the  events  of  the  past 

Have  given  me  proof,  and  now  I  behold 

Our  ruler's  disaster,  who,  being  bereft 

Of  the  noblest  of  wives,  shall  know  upon  earth 

Mere  death  in  life  hereafter. 

Alkestis  now  comes  forth,  supported  by  her 
maidens,  and  attended  not  only  by  her  husband,  but 
by  their  little  son  and  daughter.  She  is  in  a  highly 
excited,  almost  an  ecstatic  mood,  and  the  lyric  out- 
bursts in  which  she  bewails  her  untimely  fate  are 
in  strong  contrast  with  the  calmer  recitative  in  which 
her  husband  insists  that  he  is  still  the  chief  suf- 
ferer. 


40  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Her  opening  words  will  remind  ns,  if  we  may 
turn  to  a  German  parallel,  of  the  greeting  which 
Maria  Stuart  sends  to  the  clouds  that  sail  south- 
ward toward  the  sunny  homeland  of  France. 

ALKESTIS. 

Helios,  and  light  of  day  ! 

Clouds  in  the  lofty  sky,  eddying,  hurrying  onward  ! 

ADMETOS. 

He  sees  us  both,  two  hapless  mortals,  who 
In  naught  have  wronged  the  gods,  that  thou  shouldst 
die! 

ALKESTIS. 

Earth,  and  my  palace-home  ! 

Haunts  of  my  childish  years,  land  of  my  fathers, 

Iolcos  ! 

ADMETOS. 

Rouse  thee,  unhappy  one  !     Desert  us  not. 
Pray  to  the  mighty  gods  to  pity  us. 

ALKESTIS. 

The  two-oared  skiff  I  can  see,  and  the  ghostly  ferry- 
man Charon, 

Resting  his  hand  on  the  pole  ;  and  he  calls  to  me, 
"  Why  dost  thou  linger  ? 

Make  haste  !  thou  detainest  us  Jiere  I "  So  urging 
he  hurries  me  on  ! 

ADMETOS. 

Ah  me  !  a  bitter  voyage  for  me  is  this 
Whereof  thou  speak'st !     What  agony  is  ours  ! 

ALKESTIS. 

He  is  leading  me,  —  dost  thou  not  see  f  —  to   the 

court  of  the  dead  he  is  leading  ! 
Hades   the   winged !    and   gazes   with   grim   brows 

fashing  upon  me  ! 


THE  ALKESTIS.  41 

What  ivouldst  thou?     Release  me!     Alas!      What 
a  journey  in  sorrow  I  go! 

ADMETOS. 

Piteous  for  them  that  love  thee,  most  of  all 
Me  and  my  children,  who  this  grief  shall  share. 

Alkestis  now  addresses  her  attendants,  in  a  some- 
what calmer  tone. 

ALKESTIS. 

Unhand  me,  I  pray  you,  unhand  me  ; 

Lay  me  down,  my  force  is  spent. 

Hades  is  near  at  hand, 

And  o'er  my  eyelids  Mack  night  is  creeping. 

Children  !  ah,  never  more, 

Never  more  your  mother  lives. 

ADMETOS. 

Ah  me  !  how  bitter  the  word  I  hear  ; 

More  heavy  than  death  in  every  shape ! 

Endure  not  to  leave  me,  I  pray  by  the  gods  ; 

By  thy  children  whom  thou  shalt  as  orphans  desert ! 

But  up,  and  be  strong ! 

For  if  thou  art  to  perish  no  longer  I  live ! 

My  living  or  dying  on  thee  depends, 

So  precious  to  me  thy  devotion. 

To  this  rather  rhetorical  plea  Alkestis  gives  little 
heed,  but,  summoning  all  her  strength  and  self- 
control,  makes  a  moving  appeal  for  her  children. 
It  will  be  noticed  that  she  has  no  touch  of  world- 
weariness,  but  realizes  fully  the  magnitude  of  the 
sacrifice  she  makes.  In  this  speech  she  shows  per- 
fect confidence  in  her  husband's  kindly  heart,  very 
little  in  his  constancy  and  strength.     She  herself 


42  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

has  ruled  him,  and  she  foresees  that  her  successor 
will  probably  sway  him  no  less  easily,  for  good  or 
ill. 

ALKESTIS. 

Admetos,  how  it  fares  with  me  thou  seest, 

And  ere  I  die  I  fain  would  speak  with  thee 

Of  my  desires.     Revering  thee  I  die, 

Giving  my  life  that  thou  mayst  see  the  day  ;  — 

Not  forced  to  die  for  thee,  but  free  to  wed 

Whatever  prince  of  Thessaly  I  would, 

And  dwell  within  a  happy  royal  hall. 

I  did  not  wish  to  live,  bereft  of  thee, 

With  orphaned  children.     Having  youth's  fair  gifts, 

In  which  I  took  delight,  I  grudged  them  not. 

Yet  they  who  did  beget  and  bear  thee  quailed, 

(Though  they  were  come  to  fitting  age  for  death,) 

To  die  with  honor  and  to  save  their  child. 

Thou  wert  their  only  son  ;  no  hope  was  theirs, 

When  thou  wert  dead,  to  get  them  other  children. 

Then  I  and  thou  had  lived  our  life  to  end  ; 

Thou  hadst  not  sorrowed,  parted  from  thy  wife, 

Nor  reared  thy  children  orphaned. 

But  all  this 
Some  god  has  ordered  that  it  shall  be  so. 
Amen  !     Yet  prove  thy  thanks  to  me  for  it ;  — ■ 
A  recompense  I  shall  not  ask  of  thee, 
(For  there  is  nothing  valued  more  than  life,) 
And  only  justice,  thou  'It  confess,  for  thou 
Lovest  these  children  even  as  I,  —  or  shouldst ! 
Accept  them  as  the  masters  of  my  house, 
Nor  wed  a  second  mother  for  my  offspring, 
Who,  not  so  kind  as  I,  in  wrath  will  lay 
Her  hand  upon  these  children,  thine  and  mine. 


THE   ALKESTIS.  43 

So  prithee  do  not  that,  I  do  entreat. 
No  kinder  than  an  adder  in  her  hate 
To  former  children  is  a  second  wife. 

—  My  son  has  in  his  sire  a  mighty  tower ; 
But  thou,  —  how  shalt  thou  bloom  to  maidenhood, 
My  child  ?     How  wilt  thou  find  thy  father's  wife 
Tow'rd  thee  ?     May  she  not  give  thee  an  evil  name 
In  thy  sweet  youth,  and  so  prevent  thy  marriage  ! 
Thy  mother  may  not  dress  thee  as  a  bride, 
Herself,  nor  in  thy  travail  give  thee  cheer, 
Present  where  naught  is  as  a  mother  sweet. 
—  For  I  must  perish :  not  upon  the  morrow 
Nor  on  the  third  day  comes  this  woe  to  me : 
At  once  I  pass  to  those  that  are  no  more. 
Hail,  and  farewell !     My  husband,  thou  mayst  boast 
To  have  wed  a  noble  wife  ;  you,  children  mine, 
That  you  are  of  a  noble  mother  born. 

chorus. 
Be  cheered.     I  do  not  fear  to  speak  for  him. 
He  will  do  this,  unless  he  lose  his  wits. 

After  these  customary  two  lines  of  reassuring  com- 
monplace from  the  chorus,  Admetos  begins  an 
equally  long  reply.  This  speech  may  be  character- 
ized as  peculiarly  Euripidean.  The  poet  devotes 
all  the  resources  of  his  imagination  and  ingenuity  to 
the  chief  speech  of  his  most  ignoble  character,  just 
when  our  sympathies  are  most  completely  with- 
drawn from  him.  Here  if  anywhere  is  the  poet's 
effort  to  defend  his  unkingly  monarch. 

ADMETOS. 

It  shall  be  so,  it  shall  be  !     Fear  not !  thou 
Wert  mine  in  life,  and  shalt  in  death  alone 


44  TIIREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Be  called  my  wife  :  and  no  Thessalian  dame 
Instead  of  thee  shall  hail  me  as  her  lord. 
There  lives  no  woman  of  so  high  descent, 
Nor  yet  so  beautiful ;  and  as  for  children, 
^JThese  two  suffice :   in  them  I  pray  the  gods 
To  find  the  joy  I  may  not  have  in  thee. 

Not  for  a  year  I  '11  mourning  wear  for  thee, 
But  while  my  life  shall  last,  O  wife  of  mine, 
Detesting  her  who  bore  me,  and  my  sire, 
Who  in  word,  not  act,  have  shown  their  love  for  me, 
But  thou  hast  paid  what  was  most  dear  to  thee, 
And  saved  my  life.     Have  I  not  cause  to  grieve, 
Of  such  a  helpmeet  being  in  thee  bereft  ? 

Symposia  now  and  feasts  shall  have  an  end, 
Garlands  and  music,  that  my  palace  filled ; 
For  I  could  never  touch  the  lyre  again, 
Nor  have  the  heart  to  sing  to  Libyan  pipes, 
Since  thou  dost  take  from  me  the  joy  of  life. 

And  by  the  cunning  hands  of  artists  wrought, 
Thy  countei'f  eit  shall  lie  within  my  bed ; 
And  I,  beside  it  and  embracing  it, 
Calling  thy  name,  shall  seem  within  my  arms 
To  hold  my  wife,  although  I  hold  her  not. 
A  cold  delight,  methinks  ;  yet  from  my  soul 
A  load  were  lifted  so.      And  in  my  dreams 
Thou  'It  come  to  bless  me  ;  for  't  is  sweet  to  see 
Our  loved  ones,  even  in  visions,  while  we  may. 

If  Orpheus'  voice  and  gift  of  song  were  mine, 
So  that  Demeter's  daughter,  or  her  lord, 
I  might  beguile  and  lead  thee  forth  from  Hades, 
I  would  descend  ;  and  neither  Pluto's  hound, 
Nor  Charon  with  his  pole,  the  guide  of  souls, 
Should  check  me,  till  I  brought  thee  back  to  day. 


777  £  ALKESTIS.  45 

But  now,  await  me  there  when  I  shall  die. 
Make  ready  our  abode,  to  dwell  with  me. 
For  I  will  bid  our  children  here  to  lay 
My  body  in  the  cedarn  coffin  where 
Thou  too  art  laid  ;  not  even  in  death  would  I 
Be  parted  from  my  only  faithful  one.    —- 

CHORUS. 

And  I,  as  friend  with  friend,  will  share  with  thee 
Thy  bitter  mourning  for  her,  as  is  fit. 

ALKESTIS. 

My  children,  you  yourselves  have  surely  heard 
Your  father  say  he  will  not  bring  to  you 
Another  mother,  nor  dishonor  me. 

ADMETOS. 

And  now  I  say  it,  and  will  keep  my  word. 

ALKESTIS. 

Upon  thy  word,  take  from  my  hands  my  children. 

ADMETOS. 

I  take  from  well-loved  hands  a  precious  gift. 

ALKESTIS. 

Be  now  a  mother  to  them  in  my  stead. 

ADMETOS. 

Their  need  in  truth  is  great,  bereft  of  thee. 

The  death-scene  follows  at  once,  and  no  doubt 
made  a  striking  series  of  statuesque  groupings 
upon  the  stage,  accompanied  by  the  mute  expres- 
sions of  sympathy  from  the  chorus  in  the  orches- 
tra. Such  a  scene  upon  the  stage  is  unusual  in  a 
Greek  drama,  but  in  this  case  it  seems  to  be  elab- 
orated expressly  to  introduce  an  opportunity  for 
emotional  acting.     AVe  miss  even  the  covering  of 


46  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

the  face  just  before  death,  which  was  almost  de- 
manded by  Hellenic  feelings  of  propriety. 

ALKESTIS. 

Children  !  when  I  should  live,  I  pass  below ! 

ADMETOS. 

Alas  !     What  shall  I  do,  deprived  of  thee  ? 

ALKESTIS. 

The  dead  are  nothing.     Time  will  comfort  thee. 

ADMETOS. 

Oh,  take  me,  by  the  gods  I  pray,  with  thee  ! 

ALKESTIS. 

Nay,  it  suffices  that  I  die  for  thee. 

ADMETOS. 

0  Heaven !  of  what  a  comrade  thou  dost  rob  me  ! 

ALKESTIS. 

Ah  yes,  my  darkened  eyes  are  heavier  grown. 

ADMETOS. 

1  perish,  if  indeed  thou  leavest  me ! 

ALKESTIS. 

Thou  must  account  me  as  one  that  is  no  more. 

ADMETOS. 

Do  not  desert  thy  children  !     Lift  thy  face ! 

ALKESTIS. 

Reluctantly  I  say,   Farewell,  my  children ! 

ADMETOS. 

Look  on  them !     Look  on  them  ! 

ALKESTIS. 

I  am  no  more  ! 

ADMETOS. 

Wilt  thou  leave  us  ? 

ALKESTIS. 

Farewell !  [Dies 


THE  ALKEST1S.  47 

ADMETOS. 

Ah  me  !  my  loss  ! 

CHOKUS. 

She  is  gone !     Admetos'  wife  is  now  no  more  ! 

The  moment  Alkestis  expires,  the  elder  child, 
Eumelos,  begins  a  lyric  lament,  which  is  believed 
to  have  been  actually  sung'  from  behind  the  scenes, 
while  the  part  of  the  orphaned  prince  was  acted 
by  a  "mute"  boy. 

EUMELOS. 

Alas!  woe  is  mine/     My  mother  now  is  passed 

Beneath  the  earth,  and  lives  no  more, 

My  father,  in  the  light ! 

Deserting  my  young  life, 

She  leaves  me  orphaned  here  — 

For  see  !     Her  lids  are  closed  ; 

Her  arms  beside  her  hang  ! 

Oh  hear  me,  my  mother,  hear  me,  I  pray  ! 

I  call  to  thee, 

Thy  little  nestling, 

Clinging  closely  to  thy  face! 

ADMETOS- 

To  one  who  neither  sees  nor  hears  ;  so  ye 
And  I  are  smitten  by  a  heavy  woe. 

EUMELOS. 

My  father,  I  alone  am  left,  my  mother  gone, 

Upon  a  lonely  way,  a  child. 

Ah,  cruel  is  the  fate 

That  falls  on  me  !  nor  less 

To  thee,  my  sister,  too, 

The  lot  of  suffering  comes. 

To  sorrow  xvert  thou  wed, 


48  THREE   DRAMAS   OF   EURIPIDES. 

To  sorrow,  my  father  !  not  to  old  age 
With  her  thou  'It  come. 
Too  soon  she  perished, 
Slaying  with  her  all  our  house. 

CHORUS. 

Admetos,  this  calamity  must  needs 

Be  borne,  for  not  the  first  or  last  of  men 

Art  thou  to  lose  an  honorable  wife. 

And  know  that  death  is  unto  all  men  due. 

ADMETOS. 

I  know  it  well  .  .  .  nor  unawares  this  grief 
Befalls  ;  the  knowledge  long  hath  made  me  pine. 

And  already  Admetos  is  sufficiently  calm  to  issue 
his  commands  regarding  the  funeral  and  the 
mourning  for  the  queen. 

But  —  for  I  now  shall  carry  forth  my  dead  — 
Attend  ;  and,  tarrying,  raise  the  chant  unto 
The  god  below  to  whom  no  wine  is  poured. 
And  all  Thessalians  over  whom  I  rule 
I  bid  to  share  the  mourning  for  this  lady, 
With  shaven  hair,  and  raiment  all  of  black. 
And  all  who  chariots  drive,  or  single  steeds, 
Shall  shear  the  tresses  from  their  coursers'  necks. 
Nor  pipe  nor  lyre  shall  sound  throughout  the  town, 
Until  twelve  moons  have  rounded  to  their  full. 
I  shall  not  bury  dearer  dead,  nor  one 
More  loving  toward  me.     I  should  honor  her, 
Since  she  alone  has  perished  in  my  stead. 

[Alkestis  is  carried   into  the  palace,  followed  by  Admetos 
and  the  children. 

The  chorus,  left  alone  in  the  orchestra,  now  sing 


THE  ALKESTIS.  49 

the  second  Stasimon.  Like  all  the  choral  passages 
of  this  play,  but  unlike  those  of  many  Euripidean 
dramas,  the  ode  has  the  closest  connection  with,  and 
appropriateness  to,  the  moment  in  the  plot  where  it 
is  inserted. 


SECOND  STASIMON. 

CHORUS. 

Daughter  of  Pelias,  hail  ! 

I  pray  that  contented  in  Hades'  dwelling, 

In  the  sunless  abode,  a  home  thou  find  est  ! 

And  Hades  shall  know  it,  the  black-tressed  god,  and 

the  Ancient  who  sitteth 
Holding  the  tiller  and  oar, 
Ferry-man  of  shadows, 
That  the  bravest  by  far  ofivomen  surely 
On  Acheron's  turbid  stream  to-day 
Passes  across  in  the  two-oared  bark. 

Often  the  minstrel  of  thee 

Shall  sing,  to  the  seven-stringed  shell  of  the  tortoise, 

Or  in  dirges  without  the  lyre  shall  praise  thee, 

In  Sparta  whenever  recurring  comet h  the  feast  of 

Carneia, 
When  in  the  first  of  the  month 
Nightlong  shines  the  moonlight, 
Or  in  Athens,  a  city  rich  and  famous : 
So  noble  a  theme  thy  death  hath  left 
Unto  the  bards  of  the  after-time. 


50  THREE    DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

Would  that  to  me  H  were  granted, 
Would  I  had  power  to  lead  thee 
From  Hades'  abode  to  daylight, 
O'er  Oocytes'  waters, 
With  oars  that  dip  in  the  stream  below  ! 
For  alone,  0  best  of  women, 
Thou,  devoting 

Thy  life,  thy  husband's  soul  hast  rescued 
Out  of  Hades.     Light  upon  thee, 
Lady,  L  pray  that  the  earth  may  be  laid  ;  and  if 
Ever  another  thy  husband  shall  woo  may  he  live  de- 
tested 
By  myself  and  by  thy  children  ! 

Neither  the  mother  offered 
For  her  son  to  perish, 
Nor  even  the  aged  father, 
Though  they  were  his  parents. 
Although  their  hair  was  already  gray, 
To  save  his  life  they  dared  not. 
Thou  hast  perished 

Ln  youth  for  him,  and  left  the  sunlight. 
Oh  that  L  could  find  a  helpmeet 
Loving  as  thou,  for  the  rarest  of  portions 
Were  it  on  earth,  and  no  grief  would  she  bring  to 

me  all  our  lifetime, 
While  we  spent  our  years  together. 

The  third  Episode  begins  with  the  sudden  and 
unexpected  appearance  of  Heracles.  He  is  not 
even  descried  and  announced  by  the  chorus  pre- 
vious to  his  entrance  ;  but  the  traditional  club  and 
lion-skin  are  without  doubt  a  sufficient  introduc- 


THE  AL  REST  IS.  5 1 

tion  to  the  audience.  It  will  be  remembered  that 
through  the  craft  of  Hera,  Heracles,  although 
the  favorite  mortal  son  of  Zeus,  is  subject  to  the 
tyranny  of  Eurystheus ;  and  for  him  he  is  now 
fulfilling  one  of  his  famous  tasks. 

The  dialogue  which  now  begins  is  between  Hera- 
cles and  the  leader  of  the  chorus.  The  chorus  is, 
as  the  reader  will  have  perceived,  a  sort  of  con- 
temporary audience  for  the  action  upon  the  stage. 
It  represents  the  average  moral  sense  of  the  com- 
munity in  which  the  events  of  the  drama  are  sup- 
posed to  occur;  and  hence,  in  most  cases,  the 
average  moral  sense  of  Greeks  in  general.  The 
chorus,  however,  hardly  ever  interferes  with  what  is 
done  on  the  stage,  but  merely  sympathizes  in  and 
comments  upon  it. 

THIRD  EPISODE. 

Heracles  (entering). 
Strangers  who  dwell  in  this  Pheraean  land, 
Shall  I  within  his  palace  find  Admetos  ? 

CHOBU8. 

He  is  indeed  within,  0  Heracles  ; 

But  tell  what  need  led  thee  to  Thessaly, 

And  turned  thy  steps  to  the  Pheraean  town. 

HERACLES. 

For  King  Eurystheus  I  fulfill  a  task. 

CHORUS. 

And  whither  goest  thou  ?    On  what  wandering  bound  ? 

HERACLES. 

To  seek  the  steeds  of  Thracian  Diomede. 


52  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

CHORUS. 

How  canst  thou  that  ?     Dost  thou  not  know  the  man  ? 

HERACLES. 

Not  I ;  nor  ever  to  Bistonia  came. 

CHORUS. 

Without  a  fight  thou  canst  not  take  the  steeds. 

HERACLES. 

The  tasks  appointed  I  may  not  renounce. 

CHORUS. 

Thyself  wilt  perish,  or  return  his  slayer ! 

HERACLES. 

Already  have  I  run  that  desperate  race ! 

CHORUS. 

And  if  thou  quell  the  king,  what  gain  is  thine  ? 

HERACLES. 

To  the  Tirynthian  lord  I  '11  lead  the  steeds. 

CHORUS. 

To  curb  their  jaws  is  not  an  easy  task. 

HERACLES. 

And  do  their  nostrils  send  out  fire  for  breath  ? 

CHORUS. 

The  flesh  of  men  they  crush  with  eager  jaws ! 

HERACLES. 

That  were  fit  food  for  prowling  beasts,  not  steeds ! 

CHORUS. 

Their  mangers  thou  mayst  see  defiled  with  blood ! 

HERACLES. 

Of  whom  does  he  who  feeds  them  boast  him  son  ? 

CHORUS. 

Of  Ares,  lord  of  Thracia's  golden  shield. 

Heracles'  next"  words  sound  quite  like  a  sigh  of 
repining  over  his  hard  earthly  lot,  and  may  remind 


THE  ALKEST1S.  53 

us  how  thoroughly  human  a  figure  he  is  in  this 
drama. 

HERACLES. 

The  task  thou  tellest  well  befits  my  lot, 
—  That  evermore  is  grim  and  arduous,  — 
If  I  must  close  in  battle  with  the  sons 
Of  Ares :  with  Lyc<lon  first,  and  next 
With  Kyknos  ;  now  I  go  to  meet  a  third, 
Contending  with  the  horses  and  their  lord. 
But  never  man  shall  see  Alcmene's  son 
Cowering  in  dread  before  the  foemen's  hand. 

CHORUS. 

And  lo,  here  is  the  ruler  of  our  land, 
Admetos,  coming  from  his  palace  forth. 
Enter  Admetos,  from  the  palace. 
admetos. 
Hail  to  thee,  son  of  Zeus,  from  Perseus'  race ! 

HERACLES. 

Admetos,  hail,  the  king  of  Thessaly ! 

ADMETOS- 

Thou  wishest  well  to  me  :  I  would  't  were  so ! 

HERACLES. 

Wherefore  in  mourning  guise  dost  thou  appear  ? 

ADMETOS. 

I  celebrate  to-day  a  funeral. 

HERACLES. 

Ill  from  thy  offspring  may  the  gods  avert ! 

This  wish  is  of  course  really  an  anxious  ques- 
tion, and  the  form  of  expression  suggests  that  re- 
luctance, common  to  ancient  and  modern  men,  to 
utter  words  which  might  seem  ominous  of  evil. 

ADMETOS. 

My  children  yet  are  living  in  my  halls. 


54  THREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

HERACLES. 

Thy  sire,  if  he  be  gone,  dies  not  untimely. 

The  greater  bluntness  of  this  speech  illustrates 
the  Greek  feeling,  of  which  there  will  be  much 
more  to  say  later,  that,  for  the  old,  life  is  a  burden 
to  be  gladly  relinquished. 

ADMETOS. 

He  and  my  mother  live,  O  Heracles ! 

HERACLES. 

'T  is  not  thy  wife,  Alkestis,  who  is  dead  ? 

At  this  instant,  with  the  certainty  that  Heracles 
knows  nothing  of  the  queen's  death,  it  occurs  to 
Admetos  that  the  duty  of  hospitality  makes  it 
necessary  to  conceal  his  loss.  Prevaricating  for 
the  moment,  he  responds  : 

ADMETOS. 

The  tale  is  twofold  I  may  tell  of  her ! 

HERACLES. 

Is  she  of  whom  we  speak  alive,  or  dead  ? 

ADMETOS. 

She  lives,  and  lives  no  more  ;  and  grief  is  mine ! 

HERACLES. 

I  am  no  wiser,  so  obscure  thy  words. 

ADMETOS. 

Dost  thou  not  know  the  fate  appointed  her  ? 

HERACLES. 

I  know  that  she  consents  to  die  for  thee. 

ADMETOS. 

Is  she  then  living,  having  promised  this  ? 

HERACLES. 

Mourn  her  not  yet ;  await  the  appointed  time. 


THE  ALKESTIS.  55 

ADMETOS. 

He  is  dead  who  would  be  so.     The  dead  are  not. 

HERACLES. 

To  be  and  be  not  are  accounted  twain. 

ADMETOS. 

This  is  thy  judgment,  and  the  other  mine. 

HERACLES. 

Why  art  thou  sorrowing  then  ?    What  friend  is  dead  ? 

ADMETOS. 

A  woman.     'T  was  of  her  I  spoke  but  now. 

HERACLES. 

A  stranger,  or  of  kindred  blood  with  thee  ? 

ADMETOS. 

A  stranger,  but  connected  with  my  house. 

HERACLES. 

Why  did  she  end  her  days  within  your  home? 

ADMETOS. 

Her  sire  was  dead  ;  she  dwelt  an  orphan  here. 

For  many  reasons  this  dialogue  pleased  an  Athe- 
nian audience  better  than  we  might  at  first  sup- 
pose. Heracles,  the  favorite  hero  of  the  Pelo- 
ponnese,  and  mythical  ancestor  of  the  Spartan 
kings,  was  far  from  being  the  ideal  hero  of  the 
Ionian  race.  The  Athenians  always  enjoyed  see- 
ing him  depicted  as  dull-witted  and  gluttonous  as 
he  was  stout  of  limb.  Hospitality,  moreover,  was 
claimed  as  an  especially  Hellenic  virtue,  for  which 
even  veracity  might  very  properly  be  sacrificed  ; 
though  indeed  the  king,  unless  in  his  first  word, 
"  she  lives,"  which  is  immediately  reversed,  avoids 
a  direct  untruth.  His  skillful  evasions  would  be 
eagerly  followed,  and  the  double  meaning  of  some 


56  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

of  his  lines  probably  tickled  the  ears  of  more  than 
the  groundlings.  Nevertheless,  I  for  one  frankly 
confess  to  liking  Euripides  least  where  his  dialogue 
has  the  most  of  that  subtlety  and  perverse  inge- 
nuity which  remind  us,  and  reminded  his  ancient 
hearers  no  less,  of  a  lawyer's  contest  with  a  slip- 
pery witness. 

In  concealing  his  bereavement  Admetos  himself 
knows  that  he  is  exposing  himself  to  general  con- 
demnation; and  for  the  scene  as  a  whole  it  will 
perhaps  be  necessary  to  offer  the  final  excuse,  that 
it  is  requisite  to  the  later  development  of  the  plot. 
Heracles  must  remain,  and  he  must  at  first  be 
ignorant  of  Alkestis'  death. 


Ah  me ! 
I  would  I  had  found  thee,  Admetos,  not  in  grief! 

ADMETOS. 

With  what  intention  dost  thou  weave  such  words  ? 

HERACLES. 

I  go  to  seek  another  friendly  hearth. 

ADMETOS. 

Not  so,  O  prince  !     Such  ill  shall  not  befall ! 

HERACLES. 

A  guest  is  burdensome,  who  comes  to  mourners. 

ADMETOS. 

The  dead  are  dead.     Pray  come  into  my  house. 

HERACLES. 

'T  were  shame  to  feast  with  friends  who  are  in  grief. 

ADMETOS. 

The  guest-rooms  lie  apart,  to  which  we'll  lead  thee. 


THE  ALKESTIS.  57 

HERACLES. 

Pray  let  me  go,  and  take  ten  thousand  thanks. 

ADMETOS. 

Thou  must  not  seek  the  hearthstone  of  another. 

(To  a  servant.) 
To  the  sequestered  guest-rooms  of  our  home 
Lead  him,  when  thou  hast  opened  them,  and  bid 
The  attendants  bring  abundant  food.     And  bolt 
The  doors  beyond  the  court.     It  is  not  fit 
That  feasters  hear  laments,  nor  guests  be  troubled. 

[Exit  Heracles,  attended,  to  the  palace. 

CHORUS. 

What  wilt  thou  do  ?     When  such  a  grief  befalls 
Art  thou  so  mad  as  to  receive  a  guest  ? 

ADMETOS. 

But  if  I  had  driven  him  forth  from  house  and  town 
Who  came  my  guest,  wouldst  thou  have  praised  me 

more  ? 
Not  so  !  for  then  my  sorrow  would  have  been 
No  less,  but  I  the  more  inhospitable. 
And  this  were  evil  added  to  our  ill, 
If  men  should  call  my  house  unkind  to  guests. 
I  find  in  him  a  host  most  generous, 
When  to  tbe  thirsty  Argive  land  I  come. 

CHORUS. 

Why  then  didst  thou  thy  present  trouble  hide, 
Seeing  he  who  came  is,  as  thou  sayst,  thy  friend  ? 

ADMETOS. 

He  never  would  have  passed  into  my  house, 
If  he  had  known  at  all  of  these  my  woes  ; 
And  I  shall  seem  to  him  not  wise  in  this, 
Nor  will  he  praise  me  :  but  my  palace  can 
Nor  turn  away,  nor  fail  to  honor,  guests. 

[Exit  to  the  palace. 


58  THREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

In  the  third  lyric  interlude  the  old  citizens  who 
form  the  chorus  celebrate  the  royal  hospitality  of 
Admetos,  which  has  made  even  the  exile  from 
Heaven,  Apollo,  content  to  dwell  with  him. 

THIRD  STASIMON. 
Hail,  0  princely  home,  to  strangers  free  and  open 

ever  ! 
Here  the  Pythian  lord  of  song,  Apollo, 
Deigned  to  make  his  dwelling, 
Deigned  to  tarry  in  thy  domain 
As  a  shepherd,  piping 
Melodies  hymeneal 
Along  thy  winding  valleys, 
Where  the  flocks  were  grazing. 

With  them  loving  ivell  thy  music  roamed  the  spotted 

lynxes, 
And  the  tawny  herds  of  lions,  leaving 
Othrys'  dales,  approached  thee, 
Danced,  Apollo,  about  thy  lyre. 
From  the  lofty-crested 
Forest  came  with  nimble  feet 
The  mottled  fawn,  rejoicing 
In  thy  gladsome  singing. 

Therefore  rich  in  flocks  unnumbered 

Is  his  home,  beside  the  Bozbian  lake 

Gently  floiving  ;  and  the  bounds  of  his  domain, 

Pasture-land  and  planted  fields,  afar  in  the  Molos*- 

sian  clime, 
By  the  dusky  stables  of  the  sun  are  set. 
He  is  lord  of  the  Mgean  wave, 
Even  to  the  cape  of  Pelion  harborless. 


TUB  ALKEST1S.  59 

Now  he  opens  wide  his  portals, 

Welcoming  with  tearful  eyes  his  guest, 

Though  he  mourns  his  loving  wife,  who  even  now 

Ceased  to  breathe.     A  lofty  breeding  maketh  men  so 

reverent. 
Nor  is  any  noble  action  all  unwise. 
In  my  soul  the  cheering  trust  remains, 
Not  unblest  his  lot  shall  be  who  fears  the  gods. 

This  tone  of  vague  hopefulness  toward  the  close 
of  the  chant  is  no  doubt  inspired  in  part  by  the 
timely  arrival  of  Heracles,  the  queller  of  monsters 
and  champion  of  suffering-  man. 

The  long  and  varied  fourth  Episode  begins  with 
a  scene  which  is  peculiarly  repugnant  to  modern 
auditors.  The  funeral  train  is  just  issuing  from 
the  palace,  and  starting  for  the  tomb  outside  the 
city  gates,  but  is  delayed  by  the  arrival  of  Adme- 
tos'  father  Pheres. 

The  burial  of  the  queen  on  the  very  day  of  her 
death  will  not  seem  incredible  to  those  who  are  fa- 
miliar with  present  customs  in  Greek  lands.  More- 
over, Alkestis  lies  exposed  to  view  upon  an  open 
bier.  Every  traveler  will  remember  what  a  shock 
he  felt  on  seeing  for  the  first  time  a  funeral  pro- 
cession, wholly  made  up  of  men,  headed  by  a  few 
priests,  hurrying  with  bell  and  book  through  the 
streets  of  modern  Athens,  bearing  the  body  of  a 
young  woman,  dressed  almost  as  if  for  a  ball,  and 
jostled  rudely  from  side  to  side  by  the  careless 
hands  that  carried  her  open  bier. 

Pheres,  the  aged  father  of  Admetos,  has  appar- 


60  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

ently  abdicated  in  his  son's  favor,  like  Laertes, 
Odysseus'  father,  in  the  Odyssey.  He  makes  a  dig- 
nified and  fitting  speech  of  sympathy  with  the  living 
and  praise  for  the  dead,  but  is  rudely  rebuffed  by 
his  son. 

FOURTH  EPISODE. 
ADMETOS  (entering  from  the  palace). 
Dear  citizens  of  Pherai  present  here, 
The  body  is  ready,  and  my  servants  now 
Uplifting  bring  it  forth  unto  the  grave  ; 
And  do  you  hail  the  dead,  as  is  her  due, 
As  she  upon  her  final  journey  goes. 

CHORUS. 

And  surely  I  see  thy  sire  with  aged  step 
Approach,  and  servants  bringing  for  thy  wife 
A  robe,  an  offering  to  those  below. 
PHERES    (entering). 
I  come  to  grieve  with  thee  in  grief,  my  son, 
For  none  will  question  she  was  brave  and  wise, 
The  wife  thou  losest.     Yet  even  this  must  needs 
Be  borne,  although  it  seems  so  hard  to  bear. 

And  now,  receive  this  robe,  and  let  it  go 
Under  the  ground  :  her  body  should  be  honored 
Who  died  to  save  thy  life,  my  child.     And  me 
She  made  not  childless,  nor  bereft  of  thee 
Left  me  to  waste  away  in  sorrowing  age ; 
And  made  her  life  among  all  woman-kind 
Most  glorious,  having  dared  this  valiant  deed. 

Thou  who  hast  saved  my  son,  and  raised  us  up 
When  we  were  fallen,  hail !  in  Hades'  home 
May  it  be  well  with  thee  !     Such  marriages 
Are  well  for  men,  or  else  they  should  not  wed. 


THE  ALKESTIS.  61 

ADMETOS. 

Not  bidden  of  me  thou  comest  to  this  tomb, 

Nor  do  I  count  thy  presence  dear  to  me. 

And  in  thy  robe  she  never  shall  be  clad. 

Not  needing  aught  of  thine  is  she  interred. 

Thou  sbouldst  have  shared  my  pain  when  death  was 

near ; 
And  having  stood  aloof,  though  old,  and  left 
The  young  to  die,  wilt  thou  lament  my  dead  ? 
Thou  wert  no  father,  surely,  of  mine,  and  she 
Who  said  she  bore  me,  and  was  called  my  mother, 
Gave  me  not  birth ;  of  slavish  blood  was  I, 
And  substituted  at  her  breast  by  stealth. 
When  put  to  proof  thou  hast  shown  me  who  thou  art, 
And  I  do  not  believe  myself  thy  son. 
Surely  in  cowardice  thou  surpassest  all ; 
Who,  though  so  close  upon  the  goal  of  life, 
Would  not  and  dared  not  perish  for  thy  son, 
But  left  it  to  his  wife,  of  alien  blood. 
And  her  alone,  and  with  good  reason,  now 
My  father  do  I  call,  and  mother  too. 

Yet  this  had  been  a  glorious  prize  for  thee 
To  win,  by  dying  for  thy  son  ;  and  brief 
In  any  case  the  rest  of  life  for  thee. 
And  she  and  I  had  lived  our  lives  to  end, 
Nor  would  I  now  be  mourning,  thus  bereft. 

Yet  all  a  happy  mortal  may  enjoy 
Thou  hast  enjoyed  ;  thou  wert,  from  youth,  a  king, 
And  hadst  in  me  a  son  to  be  thine  heir ; 
Nor  wouldst  thou,  dying  childless,  leave  thy  house 
Unguarded,  as  a  prey  to  other  men. 
Thou  surely  wilt  not  say  that  in  disdain 
Of  thy  old  age  I  bade  thee  die,  for  I 


62  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Was  ever  reverent  toward  thee  ;  —  see  the  thanks 
Which  thou,  and  she  who  bore  me,  now  return  ! 

Thou  canst  not  now  too  soon  beget  thee  sons 
Who  will  support  thy  age,  and  after  death 
Will  care  for  thee,  and  bear  thee  to  the  grave  ; 
For  not  by  hand  of  mine  shalt  thou  be  buried, 
Since  I  am  dead  to  thee  ;  if  through  another, 
Who  saves  me,  I  behold  the  light,  his  son 
And  prop  for  him  in  age  I  call  myself. 

'T  is  folly  in  the  old  to  pray  for  death, 
Lamenting  their  old  age  and  length  of  days. 
As  soon  as  death  is  near,  not  one  desires 
To  die,  and  age  is  burdensome  no  more  ! 

CHORUS. 

Ah,  cease  !  the  present  sorrow  is  enough, 

0  son  ;  embitter  not  thy  father's  heart ! 

PHERES. 

Whom  clar'st  thou,  boy,  so  bitterly  assail  ? 
A  Lydian  slave,  or  Phrygian  bought  with  gold  ? 
Dost  thou  not  know  I  am  Thessalian-born, 
Of  a  Thessalian  father  noble  and  free  ? 
Great  is  thy  insolence  ;  rash  words  at  me 
Thou  hurlest ;  —  not  unanswered  shalt  thou  go. 

I  did  beget  and  rear  thee  lord  of  this 
My  house,  but  am  not  bound  to  die  for  thee. 
No  law  ancestral,  nor  Hellenic,  bids 
The  fathers  die  to  save  their  children's  lives. 
Thy  lot,  or  sweet  or  bitter,  is  thine  own, 
And  what  thou  shouldst  receive  from  us  thou  hast. 
Many  obey  thee  ;  wide-extended  lands 

1  leave  thee,  for  I  had  them  from  my  sire. 
Wherein  then  have  I  wronged,  of  what  deprived  thee  ? 
Die  not  in  my  behalf,  —  nor  I  for  thee. 


THE  ALKEST1S.  63 

Dost  thou  rejoice  to  see  the  light,  and  deemest 
Thy  father  does  not?     Long,  methinks,  the  time 
We  spend  helow,  but  life  is  brief,  yet  sweet. 
Thou  shamelessly  hast  striven  not  to  die, 
And  livest  by  evading  destiny, 
Destroying  her ;  and  dost  thou  cast  at  me 
My  cowardice,  thou,  baser  than  thy  wife, 
Who  perished  in  thy  stead,  my  gallant  youth  ? 
Shrewd  is  thy  plan,  nor  needst  thou  ever  die, 
If  thou  canst  still  persuade  a  wife  for  thee 
To  perish !      But  wilt  thou,  so  base  thyself, 
At  kinsmen  rail  who  do  not  this  for  thee  ? 
Be  still !  and  deem  that  life,  if  dear  to  thee, 
Is  dear  to  all ;  and  if  thou  speakest  ill 
Of  me,  thou  too  shalt  hear  much  bitter  truth. 

Doubtless  we  are  in  hearty  accord  with  nearly 
every  word  of  this  speech.  And  yet  it  is  probable 
that  little,  if  any,  of  the  sympathy  of  the  Athenian 
audience  was  won  by  the  old  man's  plea.  The  pre- 
vailing feeling  of  the  time,  as  indicated  in  the  Attic 
literature,  was,  that  old  age  is  an  insufferable  bur- 
den, which  a  man  of  any  spirit  should  be  only  too 
giad  to  lay  down,  especially  when  offered  so  hon- 
orable an  opportunity  as  had  been  presented  to 
Pheres. 

Perhaps  the  opening  scene  of  Plato's  Republic 
will  come  to  the  reader's  mind  as  an  exception  to 
this  remark.  But  Kephalos  is  there  avowedly  op- 
posing the  disconsolate  feeling  of  his  equally  aged 
friends,  —  and  even  his  argument  only  goes  as  far 
as  the  conclusion  :  "  If  men  possess  well-regulated 


G4  THREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

minds  and  easy  tempers,  old  age  itself  is  no  intoler- 
able burden  ;  "  and  a  moment  later  he  agrees  that 
a  good  man  cannot  be  "  altogether  cheerful  under 
old  age  and  poverty  combined." 

One  imagines  the  last  years  of  Sophocles  as  not 
less  beautiful  and  happy  than  the  old  age  of  Long- 
fellow or  Emerson  ;  and  even  the  cynical  comic 
poet  Phrynichos  wrote  upon  the  great  tragedian's 
death  :  "  Happy  his  end ;  no  ill  had  he  endured." 
And  yet,  in  the  CEdipus  at  Colonos  we  feel  that 
the  venerable  poet  is  in  full  sympathy  with  his 
time-worn  discrowned  king,  who  realizes  with  joy 
that  his  pilgrimage  has  found  its  goal : 

"  O  Goddesses, 
Grant  me  even  now  an  end  and  resting-place, 
Unless  I  seem  unworthy,  evermore 
Enthralled  hy  heaviest  burdens  known  to  men. 
Come,  ye  sweet  daughters  of  primeval  gloom ; 
Pity  this  wretched  shade  of  Glldipus,  — 
For  surely  this  is  not  my  former  self." 

Even  if  it  be  objected  that  these  are  the  words  of 
CEdipus,  and  not  of  his  poet,  such  exception  will 
hardly  be  taken  to  the  choric  chant  in  the  same 
drama,  beginning : 

"  Whoso  craves  a  longer  span, 
When  a  moderate  life  is  past, 
Plainly  is  he  seen  of  me 
Cleaving  unto  foolishness, 
Since  the  lengthening  days  shall  bring 
Much  that  unto  grief  is  nearer  ; 
Joys  shall  he  behold  no  more,  — 
He  whose  life  perchance  has  glided 
Farther  than  its  fitting  close.'1'' 


THE  ALKESTI8.  65 

But  indeed  it  is  hardly  needful  to  accumulate  ci- 
tation or  argument  regarding  this  feeling  of  the 
utter  forlornness  of  age.  It  follows  almost  as  a 
necessary  corollary  to  that  enthusiastic  delight  in 
youthful  beauty  and  manly  vigor  which  is  per- 
haps the  most  familiar  and  striking  of  all  Greek 
traits. 

Pheres'  energetic  and  aggressive  defense,  then, 
must  have  fallen  upon  the  ears  of  the  Athenians 
merely  as  an  amusing  and  ingenious  piece  of  soph- 
istry. Admetos  does  not  feel  that  it  demands  any 
extended  reply. 

CHORUS. 

Too  much  of  ill  is  said,  both  now  and  then  : 
But,  aged  sire,  revile  thy  son  no  more. 

ADMETOS. 

Speak  !  I  have  said  my  say  ;  but  if  thou  'rt  pained 
To  hear  the  truth,  thou  shouldst  not  do  me  wrong. 

PHERES. 

The  wrong  were  greater  had  I  died  for  thee. 

ADMETOS. 

Is  it  the  same  for  youth  and  age  to  die  ? 

PHERES. 

A  single  life,  not  two,  we  ought  to  live. 

ADMETOS. 

I  am  content  thou  live  as  long  as  Zeus  ! 

PHERES. 

Thou  cursest,  then,  thy  parents,  wronged  in  naught? 

ADMETOS. 

I  knew  that  thou  desirest  length  of  years. 

PHERES. 

Is  not  this  body  buried  in  thy  stead  ? 


66  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

ADMETOS. 

A  proof,  0  base  one,  of  thy  cowardice  ! 

PHERES. 

Thou  wilt  not  say  that  I  have  caused  her  death  ? 

ADMETOS. 

Ah  me ! 
Would  I  could  ever  count  on  help  from  thee  ! 

PHERES. 

"Woo  many,  so  that  more  may  die  for  thee. 

ADMETOS. 

This  is  thy  shame,  who  didst  refuse  to  die. 

PHERES. 

Dear  is  the  light  of  yonder  god  to  me. 

ADMETOS. 

Thy  spirit  is  base,  unworthy  of  a  man. 

PHERES. 

Thou  dost  not  bury  in  joy  an  old  man's  form. 

ADMETOS. 

Whene'er  thou  diest,  inglorious  shalt  thou  fall. 

PHERES. 

My  ill  repute  concerns  me  not  when  dead. 

This  sentiment  is  peculiarly  abhorrent  to  any 
Greek ;  and  the  fact  that  Pheres  is  forced  into 
uttering  it  shows  clearly  on  which  side  the  poet's 
own  sympathies  are  found. 

ADMETOS. 

Ah  me  !     How  full  is  age  of  shamelessness  ! 

PHERES. 

Not  shameless,  foolish  rather,  was  thy  wife. 

ADMETOS. 

Depart,  and  let  me  bury  this  my  dead. 


THE  ALKESTJS.  67 

PHERES. 

I  go,  and  thou,  her  slayer,  shalt  bury  her ! 
But  to  her  kinsmen  thou  shalt  pay  the  debt. 
Acastos  lives  no  more  among  mankind, 
Or  else  he  will  avenge  his  sister's  blood. 

ADMETOS. 

Away  with  thee,  and  her  who  dwells  with  thee  ! 
Childless,  although  your  son  is  living,  spend 
Your  age,  as  ye  deserve.     Come  not  beneath 
My  roof ;  and  were  it  fit,  by  herald's  voice 
Thy  hearth  ancestral  I  would  have  renounced  — 

[Exit  Pheres. 
But  we,  —  for  we  must  bear  our  present  grief,  — 
Let  us  go  on  to  lay  her  in  the  tomb. 

Admetos  resumes  his  place  as  chief  mourner,  and 
the  old  men  of  the  chorus,  as  they  chant  the  follow- 
ing anapaests,  leave  the  orchestra  and  move  slowly 
off,  together  with  the  retinue  from  the  palace,  in 
the  funeral  train. 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas  !  thou  daring  of  deed, 
Thou  noblest  and  bravest  of  women  by  far, 
Farewell !  and  kindly  may  Hermes  below, 
And  Hades,  receive  thee  ;  and  if  even  there 
There  is  honor  for  merit,  receiving  thy  due, 
At  Persephone's  side  be  thy  station  ! 

As  the  chant  dies  away  in  the  distance,  the  ser- 
vant who  was  especially  charged  with  the  enter- 
tainment of  Heracles  comes  forth  from  the  palace. 
He  is  bitterly  enraged  at  the  behavior  of  the  un- 
known  guest.      Heracles   himself    also   presently 


68  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

appears,  flushed  and  exhilarated  with  wine.  (As 
no  motive  is  assigned  for  their  coming  out  into  the 
open  air  at  this  time,  it  is  possible  that  for  this  part 
of  the  episode  the  scene  opened,  disclosing  an  inner 
apartment  where  Heracles  sat  at  table.) 

It  has  already  been  acknowledged  that  there  are 
elements  in  this  play  much  lighter  and  less  digni- 
fied than  are  found  in  the  older  Athenian  tragedy, 
and  it  has  been  mentioned  that  in  the  quartette  of 
dramas  brought  out  together  by  the  poet  the  Alkes- 
tis  was  performed  last,  this  position  being  usually 
occupied  by  a  "  satyr  drama,"  or  semi-comic  after- 
piece. This  may  account  for  a  certain  playfulness 
and  lightness  of  touch,  and  perhaps  for  the  happy 
close  of  the  play  ;  but  I  am  unable  to  see  anything 
really  comic  in  the  drama.  Least  of  all  is  there 
anything  amusing  in  this  scene,  although  Heracles 
is  undoubtedly  somewhat  affected  by  wine.  On  the 
contrary,  the  situation  greatly  heightens  the  pain- 
ful effect  produced  by  the  death  and  funeral  of 
Alkestis,  and  is  no  more  diverting  than,  e.  g.,  the 
grave-diggers'  scene  in  Hamlet. 

manservant    (entering). 
Full  many  guests  already  have  I  known, 
Who  came  from  every  land  to  Admetos'  home, 
And  whom  I  served  with  food  ;  but  never  worse 
Was  any  guest  I  entertained  than  this  ; 
Who,  first,  although  he  saw  our  lord  in  grief, 
Ventured  to  pass  the  gates  and  enter  in  ; 
And  then,  he  did  not  quietly  accept, 
Knowing  our  loss,  what  chanced  to  be  at  hand, 


THE  ALKESTIS.  69 

But  what  we  did  not  fetch  him  bade  us  bring. 
And  grasping  in  his  hand  an  ivy-cup, 
He  quaffed  the  unmixed  juice  of  dusky  grapes, 
Until  the  fiery  wine  had  heated  him  ; 
And  garlanded  his  head  with  myrtle-boughs, 
Howling  discordant  words.     And  twofold  songs 
Were  heard  ;  for  he  would  sing,  regarding  not 
Admetos'  sorrows,  and  we  servants  mourned 
Our  lady,  but  concealing  from  the  guest 
Our  tearful  eyes,  —  for  so  Admetos  bade. 
And  now  I  am  entertaining  in  the  house 
A  guest,  some  robber  or  a  rascal  thief, 

(The  chorus  is  evidently  not  in  the  orchestra, 
else  the  leader  would  correct  this  misapprehension 
of  the  servant.) 

While  she  has  issued  forth !     I  followed  not, 
Nor  lifted  hand  in  mourning  for  my  queen, 
Who  was  to  me  and  all  the  household  slaves 
A  mother ;  for  she  saved  us  countless  ills, 
Softening  her  husband's  wrath.     May  I  not  well 
Detest  the  stranger,  come  in  evil  hour  ? 

heracles  (entering  from  the  palace). 

Fellow,  why  dost  thou  look  so  grim  and  sad  ? 
A  servant  must  not  sullen  be  to  guests, 
But  entertain  them  with  a  cheerful  heart. 
But  thou,  who  seest  here  thy  master's  friend, 
With  knitted  brows,  sad-faced,  receivest  him, 
Giving  thy  thoughts  to  mourning  for  a  stranger. 

Come  hither,  that  thou  mayest  wiser  grow. 
Dost  know  the  nature  of  our  mortal  state  ? 
No,  surely,  —  for  how  shouldst  thou  ?  —  but  I  '11  teach 
thee. 


70       THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

It  is  the  fate  of  all  mankind  to  die, 
Nor  is  there  one  of  mortals  who  is  sure 
That  on  the  morrow  he  will  be  alive. 
We  know  not  how  our  destiny  will  turn ; 
That  is  not  to  be  taught,  nor  learned  by  art. 
Now  having  heard  and  learned  this  truth  of  me, 
Rejoice  thee,  drink,  and  count  the  passing  day 
Thine  own ;  but  all  the  rest  belongs  to  chance. 
And  honor  Kypris,  of  divinities 
Sweetest  to  mortals  ;  kindly  is  the  goddess. 
But  all  things  else  let  go,  and  hear  my  words, 
If  I  appear  to  thee  to  speak  the  truth,  — 
Methinks  I  do.     Leave  thy  excessive  grief, 
And  go  beyond  the  gate,  and  drink  with  me, 
Covered  with  garlands  ;  and  I  know  the  splash 
Of  wine  into  the  cup  will  drive  from  thee 
Thy  present  gloom  and  sulkiness  of  soul. 
The  thoughts  of  mortals  should  be  mortal  too ; 
For  to  these  gloomy  men  with  knitted  brows, 
Ay,  all  of  them,  if  I  may  be  the  judge, 
Life  is  not  life,  but  a  calamity. 

When  Heracles  addresses  such  words  to  the  ser- 
vant of  his  host  he  is  of  course  very  much  under 
the  influence  of  wine.  But  his  thoughts  are  at 
once  recalled  to  the  mourning  within  the  house  by 
the  curt  and  gloomy  reply  of  the  attendant. 

MANSERVANT. 

All  this  we  know  ;  but  that  which  now  we  do 
Is  suited  not  to  joy,  and  fits  not  mirth. 

HERACLES. 

She  who  has  died  was  alien.     Mourn  not  so. 
The  masters  of  this  house  are  yet  alive. 


THE  ALKESTIS.  71 

MANSERVANT. 

Alive  !     Thou  knowest  not  the  woe  within  ? 

HERACLES. 

Unless  thy  master  has  deceived  me,  yes. 

MANSERVANT. 

He  is  indeed  exceeding  hospitable ! 

HERACLES. 

Should  I  fare  ill  because  a  stranger  dies  ? 

MANSERVANT. 

Ah  yes  !     She  is  a  stranger  at  our  gates  ! 

HERACLES. 

Is  there  a  sorrow  he  did  not  reveal  ? 

MANSERVANT. 

Farewell !     'T  is  ours  to  mourn  our  master's  ills. 

HERACLES. 

Men  speak  not  so  of  mourning  for  a  stranger  ! 

MANSERVANT. 

Nor  had  I  then  been  vexed  to  see  thee  feast. 

HERACLES. 

Have  I  been  strangely  treated  by  my  hosts  ? 

MANSERVANT. 

Not  at  a  fitting  time  thou  'rt  come,  our  guest ; 
For  we  are  mourning.     See,  our  hair  is  shorn  ; 
Behold  our  sable  robes. 

HERACLES. 

But  who  is  dead  ? 
Is  either  child  or  the  aged  father  gone  ? 

MANSERVANT. 

It  is  Admetos'  wife  has  perished,  sir ! 

Heracles'  tone  has  been  growing  more  and  more 
solicitous,  and  by  this  shock  he  is  at  once  quite 
sobered. 


72  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

HERACLES. 

What  sayst  thou  ?     Why  did  you  receive  me,  then  ? 

MANSERVANT. 

He  dreaded  to  repulse  thee  from  his  house. 

HERACLES. 

Unhappy  man  !     Of  what  a  consort  robbed  ! 

MANSERVANT. 

We  all  have  perished,  and  not  she  alone. 

HERACLES. 

Why,  I  did  see  thine  eyes  all  wet  with  tears, 

Thy  shaven  hair,  and  looks  ;  but  I  believed 

He  bore  a  stranger's  body  to  the  grave. 

And  in  my  insolence  of  heart  I  passed 

The  gates,  and  feasted  in  my  guest  friend's  house, 

In  all  his  misery.     Then  I  made  me  merry, 

With  wreathed  head.  .  .  .  'T  was  wrong  to  hold  thy 

peace, 
When  such  calamity  befell  your  house. 
—  And  where  is  she   interred  ?     Where  may  I  find 

her  ? 

MANSERVANT. 

By  the  straight  road  that  to  Larissa  runs, 

Thou  'It  find  the  polished  tomb,  outside  our  town. 

The  tombs  of  ancient  cities  frequently  lined  the 
road  outside  the  principal  gate.  At  Assos  they 
were  arranged  in  terraces  upon  the  steep  slope  at 
the  roadside,  and  as  the  terrace-walls  have  given 
way,  hundreds  of  huge  sarcophagi  and  monuments 
of  various  forms,  half  buried  and  piled  in  the  wild- 
est confusion,  still  mark  the  course  of  the  chief 
avenue  from  the  town  toward  the  bridge.  Our  old 
chief,  F.  H.  B.,  says  he  can  never  read  these  lines 


THE  ALKESTIS.  73 

without  feeling  the  archaeologist's  spirit  roused  once 
more,  and  a  wild  impulse  seizes  him  to  rush  off 
and  see  if  the  "  polished  tomb  "  of  the  royal  family 
stands  yet  unrifled  by  the  high-road  without  the 
gates  of  ancient  Pherai. 

HERACLES. 

Now,  0  my  much-enduring  heart  and  hand, 
Show  what  a  child  Tyrinthian  Alcmene, 
Alectryon's  daughter,  bore  to  Zeus  in  thee  ! 
For  I  must  rescue  her  who  died  but  now, 
And  must  restore  to  this  her  home  again 
The  lady  Alkestis,  for  Admetos'  sake. 
I  go  to  watch  for  Death,  the  black-robed  lord 
Of  ghosts  ;  and  I  shall  find  him,  as  I  think, 
Drinking  the  blood  of  victims  by  the  tomb. 
And  if  I  dart  from  out  my  lurking-place, 
And  seize  him,  and  about  him  throw  my  arms, 
His  aching  frame  for  him  shall  no  one  free, 
Until  he  yield,  and  let  the  lady  go. 

But  if  this  hunt  shall  fail,  and  he  come  not 
To  seek  the  bloody  offering,  then  I  go 
To  Kore's  sunless  dwelling  and  her  lord's 
To  find  her  ;  and  I  hope  to  lead  her  up, 
And  place  her  in  the  arms  of  this  my  host, 
Who  entertained  me  and  repulsed  me  not, 
—  Though  smitten  by  a  great  calamity,  — 
But  through  regard  for  me  concealed  his  grief. 

Who  is  more  kind  to  guests  in  Thessaly  ? 
Who  in  all  Hellas  ?     And  he  shall  not  say 
His  noble  courtesy  has  found  me  base. 

[Exit  Heracles. 
These  words  of  unmistakable  affection  and  respect 


11  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

for  Admetos  are  to  be  carefully  noted.  Some  stu- 
dents have  even  found  in  the  play  as  a  whole  a 
glorification  of  hospitality. 

At  this  point  Heracles  rushes  away.  A  moment 
later  Admetos  appears,  returning  from  the  grave. 
As  he  slowly  approaches  the  palace,  the  Kommos, 
a  lament  for  the  queen,  of  mingled  recitative  and 
lyrical  stanzas,  is  carried  on  by  the  king  and  the 
chorus  in  alternation. 

Enter  Admetos,  with  the  returning  funeral  train. 

ADMETOS. 

Alas  !  alas  !     The  hateful  approach, 

The  hateful  sight  of  my  desolate  home  ! 

Ah  me  !     Ah  me  ! 

Shall  I  go,  or  stay  ?     Shall  I  speak,  or  no  ? 

I  would  I  were  dead  ! 

My  mother  hath  borne  me  to  evil  fate ! 

I  envy  the  dead :  I  long  and  desire 

In  the  land  of  ghosts  to  make  my  abode. 

For  I  care  not  to  look  on  the  light  of  the  sun, 

Nor  to  tread  on  the  earth  beneath  my  feet ; 

So  precious  a  hostage  is  torn  from  me, 

And  conducted  by  Death  unto  Hades. 

Certain  portions  of  this  Kommos  have  a  decid- 
edly operatic  tone,  especially  the  following  passage, 
which  was  evidently  sung.  Admetos'  portion  is 
merely  a  series  of  ejaculations.  A  little  later  comes 
another  stanza  of  identical  metrical  form,  and  the 
king's  interjections  are  precisely  the  same.  The 
explanation  undoubtedly  is  that  the  two  passages 
had  the  same  musical  accompaniment. 


THE  ALKESTIS.  75 

CHORUS. 

Go  on  and  pass  within,  within  thy  palace-walls  — 

ADMETOS. 

Alas  ! 

CHORUS. 

Thou  who   hast   suffered  woes   that  call  for  wild 
lament. 

ADMETOS. 

Ah  me  ! 

CHORUS. 

Thy  grief  is  deep, 
I  know  it  well  — 

ADMETOS. 

Woe  is  me  ! 

CHORUS. 

Yet  so  thou  aidest  her  in  naught. 

ADMETOS. 

Woe  !     Woe  ! 

CHORUS. 

That  thou  shalt  never  see  thy  sweet  companion 's  face 
Is  grievous  pain  indeed  ! 

ADMETOS. 

Thou  revivest  the  sorrow  that  gnaweth  my  heart ! 

What  grief  is  more  hitter  for  men  than  to  miss 

A  faithful  companion  ?     I  would  that  ne'er 

I  had  wedded  and  dwelt  in  this  palace  with  her ! 

And  I  envy  the  childless,  unwedded  of  men. 

Their  life  is  but  one,  and  the  sorrows  therein 

Are  more  easy  to  bear. 

But  the  wasting  diseases  that  children  befall, 

And  the  joys  of  wedlock  shattered  by  death, 

Are  a  sight  unendurable,  since  we  are  free 

To  live  ever  unwedded  and  childless. 


76  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

The  second   stanza  or  antistrophe  mentioned  above 
now  follows. 

CHORUS. 

A  grief,  a  grief  befalls,  that  may  not  be  withstood. 

ADMETOS. 

Alas  ! 

CHORUS. 

No  limit  dost  thou  set  unto  thy  sorrowing. 

ADMETOS. 

Ah  me  ! 

CHORUS. 

The  blow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  yet  — 

ADMETOS. 

Woe  is  me  ! 

CHORUS. 

Endure  !  thou  Wt  not  the  first  to  mourn  — 

ADMETOS. 

Woe  !     Woe  ! 

CHORUS. 

A  wife  ;  but  sorrow  comes,  in  ever-varied  form, 
Yet  comes  to  all  mankind. 

ADMETOS. 

Ah !  long  is  the  mourning  and  sorrow  for  those 
Who  have  passed  below  ! 

Why  didst  thou  prevent  me  from  casting  myself 
Down  into  the  hollowed  trench  of  her  grave, 
And  lying  in  death  by  the  brave  one's  side  ? 
And  instead  of  but  one,  two  faithful  souls 
Would  Hades  at  once  have  received,  when  we  crost 
The  river  beneath  together  ! 

CHORUS. 

In  the  home  of  one  who  was  my  kinsman 
Perished  much  lamented 


THE  ALKESTIS.  77 

Once  his  youthful  only  son : 

Yet  he  bore  his  grief  with  resignation, 

Though  already  nearing 

The  time  when  locks  are  whitened, 

Far  advanced  in  life. 

It  has  been  supposed  that  Euripides  here  alludes 
to  the  fortitude  of  his  own  teacher,  the  philosopher 
Anaxagoras,  when  bereft  of  his  son.  It  hardly 
seems  necessary,  however,  to  seek  a  special  a23pli- 
cation  for  so  commonplace  an  allusion. 

ADMETOS. 

O  familiar  shape  of  my  palace-home, 
How  can  I  endure  to  enter  and  dwell 
In  conditions  so  changed  ?     How  altered  is  all ! 
For  then  by  the  torches  of  Pelian  pine, 
And  hymeneal  songs  I  entered  in, 
And  my  loving  wife  I  led  by  the  hand. 
Then  rose  the  resounding  festal  song, 
In  praise  of  my  queen  —  who  is  dead  !  —  and  of  me  ; 
How  we  were  wedded,  of  high  descent, 
Of  illustrious  lineage  through  mother  and  sire. 
But  now  there  is  wailing  for  nuptial  hymns, 
For  garments  of  white  there  are  robes  of  black, 
And  they  bid  me  go  in, 
To  a  home  bereft  and  lonely. 
chokus. 

Close  upon  thy  bliss,  for  thee,  in  sorrow 

All  untried,  there  followed 

This  thy  grief ;  —  yet  life  remains. 

She  is  dead :  the  loving  ties  are  broken  ; 

But  already  many 


78  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

Have  lost  a  dear  companion, 
Robbed,  like  thee,  by  death. 

Here  the  Komnios  ends,  and  the  long  remarka- 
bly varied  fourth  Episode  now  closes  with  a  sad 
speech  of  Admetos.  He  is  still  thinking  chiefly  of 
himself,  of  course,  but  has  at  least  begun  to  realize 
more  fully  how  unheroic  a  figure  he  has  become  in 
the  eyes  of  other  men. 

ADMETOS. 

O  friends,  my  wife  has  now  a  happier  lot, 
Methinks,  than  I,  although  it  seem  not  so. 
For  sorrow  never  shall  approach  her  more ; 
She  is  gloriously  freed  from  many  ills. 
But  I,  who  should  have  died,  evading  fate, 
Shall  spend,  I  feel  it  now,  a  wretched  life. 
How  shall  I  endure  to  enter  this  my  home  ? 
Addressing  whom,  or  hailed  by  whom,  may  I 
Go  happy  in  ?  or  whither  shall  I  turn  ? 
The  solitude  within-doors  drives  me  forth, 
When  I  behold  my  lonely  marriage-bed, 
The  chairs  wherein  she  sat,  the  untrodden  floor ; 
Or  when  our  children,  clinging  to  my  knees, 
Lament  their  mother,  and  the  household  mourns 
The  mistress  who  has  perished  from  the  home. 

So  fares  it  in  my  halls  ;  and  then  without, 
Thessalian  weddings  and  the  gatherings 
Where  matrons  come  will  pain  me ;  I  cannot  bear 
To  see  the  old  companions  of  my  wife. 

And  every  enemy,  hearing  this,  will  say  : 

(But  no  enemy's  words  can  have  reached  Adme- 
tos as  yet.    It  may  well  be  suspected  that  the  sound 


THE  ALKESTIS.  79 

in  his  ears  is  the  voice  of  his  own  accusing  con- 
science.) 

"  See  him  who  lives  disgraced,  who  dared  not  die, 
But  barters,  like  a  coward,  her  he  wed, 
To  avoid  his  doom  !     He  claims  to  be  a  man  ? 
And  hates  his  parents,  though  he  would  not  die 
Himself  ?  "     Such  evil  name  have  I  to  bear, 
Besides  my  grief  :  why  then  is  't  well,  my  friends, 
To  live,  inglorious  and  most  miserable? 

Dreading  to  enter  his  desolated  home,  the  king 
remains  upon  the  stage,  while  the  chorus  sing  their 
last  ode.  The  old  men  celebrate  in  the  striking 
verses  of  the  first  pair  of  strophes  the  terrible 
might  of  Necessity. 

FOURTH    STASIMON. 

CHOBUS. 

High  'aloft  have  I  been  lifted 

On  the  poets'  wings  of  song  ; 

Many  sages'  tvords  have  studied  ; 

Nothing  have  I  known  or  found 

Mightier  than  Necessity. 

Neither  in  the  Thracian  tablets 

By  the  Orphic  voice  recorded, 

Nor  in  all  the  drxigs  that  Phoibos  to  Asclepios'  chil- 
dren gave, 

Is  a  cure  to  break  her  poiver  for  the  troubled  sons  of 
men. 

She  alone  hath  neither  altars 
Nor  an  image  to  adore. 


80  THREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Offerings  she  regardeth  never. 

Come  not,  Goddess,  in  my  life, 

Sterner  than  now  thou  art  to  me ; 

For  whatever  Zeus  decreeth 

Is  fulfilled  with  thy  assistance  ; 

Even   the    Chalybean   iron    thou    subduest   in   thy 

might, 
And  thy  unrelenting   spirit  knoiveth  not   regret  or 

shame. 

Thee  too,  0  King,  in  her  hands  irresistible  holdeth 

the  goddess  now  : 
Yet  be  thou  patient  !     Thou  never  shalt  raise  by  thy 

tears  to  the  light  of  the  sun 
The  vanished  below.     Even  children  of  gods 
Must  fade  to  the  gloom  of  death. 
Dear  ivhile  she  dwelt  among  us  on  earth, 
And  dear  is  she  now  although  dead. 
Of  all  womankind  the  most  valiant 
Was  she  ivho  hath  shared  in  thy  home. 

Not  a  mere  mound  for  the  perished  and  lost  shall 
the  tomb  of  thy  wife  be  called. 

Let  her  be  honored  no  less  than  the  gods,  by  the  wan- 
dering pilgrim  adored. 

Whoever  shall  enter  the  footpath  that  runs 

By  the  side  of  her  grave  shall  say  : 
"  She  for  her  husband  perished  of  old, 

And  now  is  a  spirit  to  aid. 

Hail,  lady,  we  pray  for  thy  blessing  /  " 

Such  words  shall  they  utter  to  her. 

With  these  last  lines  the  English  student  may  be 


THE  ALKESTIS.  81 

glad  to  compare  the  treatment  of  a  very  similar 
subject  in  the  dirge  for  Imogen  in  "  Cymbeline," 
written  by  the  poet  Collins,  which  begins : 

"  To  fair  Fidele's  mossy  tomb 

The  village  hinds  and  maids  shall  bring  "... 

The  Exodos,  or  final  scene,  begins  with  the  reen- 
trance  of  Heracles,  leading  with  him  a  veiled  lady. 

EXODOS. 

HERACLES. 

With  frankness  to  a  friend  we  ought  to  speak, 
Admetos,  not  to  hide  within  our  breasts 
A  grievance.     I  in  sorrow  had  the  right 
To  stand  beside  thee  as  a  well-tried  friend. 
Thou  didst  not  tell  me  that  the  corpse  you  buried 
Was  thine  own  wife,  and  feasted  me  in  hall 
As  if  your  mourning  were  but  outward  show. 
I  crowned  me  and  poured  libations  to  the  gods 
Within  your  home,  that  was  a  house  of  mourning. 
I  blame  thee,  —  yes,  I  blame  thee,  suffering  this; 
Yet  would  not  give  thee  pain,  that  art  in  grief. 

And  why  returning  here  I  come  once  more, 
I  '11  tell  thee.     Take  and  keep  for  me  this  woman, 
Till  with  the  Thracian  mares  I  come  again, 
When  I  have  slain  the  king  of  Bistones. 
If  ill  befall,  —  yet  I  would  fain  return,  — 
I  give  her  for  a  servant  to  thy  house. 
With  mighty  toil  I  won  her  to  my  hands. 
I  chanced  on  those  that  held  a  public  game 
For  athletes,  worthy  of  exertion.     There 
I  won  and  brought  her  off,  the  victor's  prize. 
For  they  who  won  the  easier  games  had  steeds 


82  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

To  lead  away  ;  but  tbey  wbo  won  the  harder, 
Boxing  and  wrestling,  had  a  herd  of  oxen. 
The  woman  followed  them :  and  shame  it  were 
For  him  who  won  to  fling  the  prize  away. 
But,  as  I  said,  thou  oughtst  to  care  for  her, 
For  not  by  stealth  I  won  her,  but  with  toil : 
And  thou  some  time  perchance  wilt  praise  me  too. 

ADMETOS. 

Not  in  disdain,  nor  counting  thee  a  foe, 
I  hid  the  fate  of  my  unhappy  wife ; 
But  this  were  sorrow  upon  sorrow  heaped, 
If  thou  hadst  sought  another  friendly  roof,  — 
And  I  to  mourn  my  dead  had  time  enough. 
But  I  beseech  thee,  if  it  may  be,  prince, 
Let  some  one  else  of  the  Thessalians  guard 
The  woman,  who  has  not  my  grief,  —  thy  friends 
In  Pherai  are  many  :  do  not  rouse  my  sorrow. 
I  could  but  weep  to  see  her  in  my  home. 
Smite  not  a  smitten  man  ;  and  I  am  bowed 
Enough  already  by  calamity. 
Where  in  my  house  may  a  young  woman  dwell  ? 
—  For  dress  and  ornament  declare  her  young.  — 
Shall  she  then  tarry  in  the  men's  abode  ? 
How  shall  she  live  unscathed  among  the  youths  ? 
A  young  man  is  not  easy  to  restrain, 

0  Heracles,  and  I  take  thought  for  thee. 

Or  shall  I  to  my  lost  one's  chamber  lead  her  ? 
How  can  I  admit  her  to  my  dead  wife's  bed  ? 

1  fear  a  double  blame :  lest  men  may  say 
That  I,  betraying  her  I  owe  so  much, 
Am  with  another  joined  in  sinful  love  ; 
And  for  the  dead,  to  whom  all  reverence 

Is  due,  I  ought  to  take  most  anxious  thought. 


THE  ALKESTIS.  83 

In  the  mean  time  Admetos  steals  a  glance  at  the 
veiled  and  silent  figure,  and  now  cries  out  in  a 
tumult  of  emotion  which  he  himself  cannot  fully 
comprehend  : 

—  And  thou,  O  woman,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
Know  that  thou  hast  the  very  stature  of 
Alkestis,  and  a  figure  even  as  hers. 
By  Heaven  !  I  pray  thee  take  her  from  my  sight ! 
Nor  strike  the  fallen  ;  for  I  seem  to  see 
In  her  my  wife ;  and  all  my  heart  is  dark, 
And  from  my  eyes  the  fountains  pour.     Ah  me ! 
I  know  at  last  the  taste  of  bitterest  grief .' 

CHORUS. 

Happy  I  cannot  call  thy  lot ;  yet  thou 
Must  bear  in  patience  what  a  god  bestows. 

HERACLES. 

I  would  I  had  such  power  that  I  might  bring 
Again  to  daylight  from  the  abode  below 
Thy  wife,  and  win  for  thee  so  great  a  boon. 

There  is  an  almost  wistful  tenderness  in  these 
words  of  Heracles.  It  must  be  supposed  that  he 
is  in  all  kindliness  prolonging  the  scene,  because  he 
is  anxious  as  to  the  effect  upon  his  friend's  mind 
of  the  tremendous  revulsion  from  grief  to  joy  which 
he  is  soon  to  undergo.  The  group  upon  the  stage 
is  one  the  artist  might  well  desire  to  detain  a 
moment  longer  without  change :  the  hero  returned 
triumphant  from  the  most  wondrous  of  all  his 
tasks,  the  bowed  and  black-robed  king,  and  between 
them  the  silent  tremulous  lady,  her  eyes  gleaming 
with  tears  throuqli  the  enshrouding  veil. 


84  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

ADMETOS. 

I  well  do  know  thou  wouldst ;  yet  why  these  words  ? 
The  dead  can  never  see  the  light  again. 

HERACLES. 

Be  not  too  violent.     Bear  it  as  thou  shouldst. 

ADMETOS. 

To  chide  is  easier  than  to  hear  the  grief. 

HERACLES. 

If  thou  forever  moanest,  what  is  won  ? 

ADMETOS. 

I  know  it,  yet  the  longing  masters  me. 

HERACLES. 

Ay,  to  have  loved  the  dead  calls  forth  a  tear. 

ADMETOS. 

It  doth  destroy  me,  more  than  I  can  tell. 

HERACLES. 

Thou  hast  lost  a  noble  wife :  who  shall  gainsay  it  ? 

ADMETOS. 

So  noble  that  no  joy  is  left  in  life. 

HERACLES. 

As  yet  thy  life  is  young.     Time  will  console. 

ADMETOS. 

Ay,  truly,  if  thou  meanst  my  time  to  die ! 

HERACLES. 

Love  of  another  wife  will  end  thy  grief. 

ADMETOS. 

Be  silent !     What  a  word  !     I  had  not  thought  — 

HERACLES. 

What !     Wilt  thou  live  unwed,  in  solitude  ? 

ADMETOS. 

There  lives  not  woman  who  shall  share  my  bed. 

HERACLES. 

Thinkst  thou  she  who  is  dead  shall  gain  thereby  ? 


THE  ALKESTIS.  85 

ADMETOS. 

'T  is  fit  to  honor  her,  where'er  she  be. 

HERACLES. 

I  praise,  I  praise  thy  words  ;  yet  are  they  folly. 

ADMETOS. 

Praise  this,  that  I  shall  never  be  a  husband  more. 

HERACLES. 

I  praise  thy  firm  devotion  to  thy  wife. 

ADMETOS. 

May  I  die  if  false  to  her,  although  no  more ! 

Turning  to  his  veiled  companion,  Heracles  once 
more  insists : 

HERACLES. 

—  And  now,  receive  this  woman  in  thy  home. 

ADMETOS. 

Nay,  I  beseech  thee,  by  thy  father  Zeus  ! 

HERACLES. 

And  yet  thou  'rt  wrong  to  leave  this  act  undone, 

ADMETOS. 

And  if    't  were  done,    my   heart   were    gnawed  with 
pain. 

HERACLES. 

Grant  me  the  boon.     Perchance  't  were  not  ill-timed. 

ADMETOS. 

Alas! 
I  would  thou  hadst  not  won  her  in  the  strife  ! 

HERACLES. 

And  yet  thou  sharest  in  my  victory. 

Admetos  thinks  his  guest  merely  alludes  to  the 
familiar  Greek  proverb,  "Friends'  goods  are  com- 
mon goods,"  but  the  audience  understand  the  words 
in  a  deeper  sense. 


86  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

ADMETOS. 

'T  is  nobly  said  :  but  yet,  let  her  depart. 

HERACLES. 

If  it  must  be :  yet  first,  pray,  look  on  her. 

ADMETOS. 

I  must,  if  thou  shalt  not  be  wroth  with  me. 

HERACLES. 

Not  without  reason  do  I  hold  this  wish. 

ADMETOS. 

Have  then  thy  will,  though  nowise  sweet  to  me. 

HERACLES 

Erelong  thou  'It  praise  me.     Prithee  do  my  will. 
admetos  (to  his  attendants). 
Conduct  her,  since  our  palace  shall  receive  her. 

HERACLES. 

Nay,  not  to  servants  will  I  give  her  up. 

ADMETOS. 

Thyself,  if  it  doth  please  thee,  lead  her  in. 

HERACLES. 

To  thine  own  hands  do  I  confide  her,  then. 

ADMETOS. 

I  touch  her  not :  but  she  may  enter  in. 

HERACLES. 

In  thy  right  hand  alone  I  put  my  trust. 

ADMETOS. 

Against  my  will  I  am  forced  to  do  this,  prince. 

HERACLES. 

Consent  to  extend  thy  hand,  and  touch  thy  guest. 

ADMETOS. 

I  extend  it,  but  as  to  the  Gorgon's  head ! 

HERACLES. 

Thou  holdst  her  ? 

ADMETOS. 

Ay. 


THE  ALKESTIS.  87 

HERACLES. 

Heaven  bless  thee !     Thou  wilt  call 
Full  soon  the  son  of  Zeus  a  noble  guest. 

At  this  instant  Heracles   apparently  throws  back 
the  lady's  veil. 

—  But  look  upon  her,  if  she  seem  to  be 

Like  to  thy  wife.  —  Shake  off  in  joy  thy  grief  ! 

ADMETOS. 

Ye  gods  !     What  shall  I  say  ?     A  miracle  ! 

Is  this  indeed  my  wife  I  look  upon, 

Or  doth  a  bitter  joy  from  Heaven  smite  ? 

HERACLES. 

Nay,  but  it  is  indeed  thy  spouse  thou  seest. 

admetos  (still  half-dazed). 
I  fear  it  is  a  phantom  from  the  shades ! 

HERACLES. 

No  necromancer  hast  thou  made  thy  guest. 

ADMETOS. 

And  do  I  see  my  lady  whom  I  buried  ? 

HERACLES. 

Ay.  —  'T  is  no  wonder  thou  'rt  incredulous. 

ADMETOS. 

And  may  I  touch  and  greet  my  living  wife  ? 

HERACLES. 

Greet  her  !     Thou  holdest  all  thy  heart's  desire ! 

ADMETOS. 

0  face  and  figure  of  my  dearest  wife, 

1  hold  thee,  whom  I  never  hoped  to  see ! 

HERACLES. 

May  this  not  rouse  the  gods  to  jealous  wrath ! 

ADMETOS. 

O  thou  most  noble  child  of  Zeus  supreme, 


88  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

I  bless  thee  !     May  the  sire  who  got  thee  save 
Thy  life,  for  thou  alone  hast  rescued  mine  ! 

—  How  didst  thou  bring  her  from  the  shades  to  day  ? 

HERACLES. 

By  joining  battle  with  the  lord  that  held  her. 

ADMETOS. 

Where  was  this  strife  between  thyself  and  Death  ? 

HERACLES. 

I  seized  him  from  an  ambush  by  the  tomb. 

ADMETOS. 

—  But  why  then  does  my  wife  thus  silent  stand  ? 

HERACLES 

It  is  not  lawful  for  thee  yet  to  hear 

Her  voice,  until  to  the  infernal  gods 

She  pays  due  offering,  and  the  third  day  comes. 

The  poet  here  makes  a  most  skillful  use  ,of  what 
was  in  fact  a  necessary  limitation.  Only  two 
speaking  actors  are  at  his  disposal,  and  they  are  of 
course  now  on  the  stage  as  Heracles  and  Admetos. 
But  the  sudden  query  as  to  Alkestis'  silence  lias 
another  purpose.  It  is  intended  to  make  us  forget 
that  the  chief  problems  of  the  drama  have  not  been 
in  any  proper  sense  solved  at  all. 

Of  the  rescue  of  Alkestis  we  hear  nothing  more. 
Euripides  seems  to  have  felt  that  it  was  an  inci- 
dent which  would  only  be  made  less  credible  by 
any  attempt  at  detailed  description,  and  therefore 
he  touched  thus  lightly  upon  it  in  these  single-verse 
queries  and  replies.  Nor  have  we  any  answers 
whatever  to  the  many  questions  suggested  by  this 
strange,  weird  plot.     The  poet  has  thrown  all  his 


THE  ALKESTIS.  89 

most  earnest  effort  into  the  pathetic  scenes  of  the 
central  part  of  the  drama.  Apollo  is  now  long 
since  forgotten,  and  even  Death  is  disposed  of  as 
curtly  as  possible. 

Was  he  leading  away  toward  Hades  the  soul  of 
Alkestis,  as  he  prophesied  and  she  foresaw  ?  Was 
the  fight  at  the  grave  for  the  possession  of  her  soul 
or  her  body?  How  was  the  soul  restored  to  the 
body  ?  Most  anxiously  of  all  we  should  expect  a 
Greek  to  ask,  How  are  the  Fates,  the  dread  Moi- 
rai,  reconciled  to  the  loss  of  both  the  appointed 
victim  and  the  accepted  substitute  ?  But  even  of 
this  the  poet  seems  to  know  nothing  more  than  we, 
and  to  cars  infinitely  less. 

Let  us  say  frankly  what  every  reader  must  feel. 
Despite  all  the  grace  and  ingenuity  of  the  final 
scene  of  recognition,  the  close  of  this  play  is 
strangely  unsatisfactory  and  incomplete.  We  are 
dismissed  through  the  ivory  gate,  after  all.  If  the 
poet  had  no  decisive  word  to  speak  on  such  ques- 
tions as  we  have  asked  here,  he  should  not  have 
opened  them  up  in  his  drama  at  all.  The  opportu- 
nity to  work  powerfully  on  the  sympathies  of  his 
hearers,  to  bid  them  weep  over  Alkestis'  bier  and 
rejoice  at  her  miraculous  resurrection,  has  beguiled 
him  into  using  a  legend  which  he  should  not  have 
ventured  to  touch.  He  lacked  two  requisites  for 
the  poet  who  would  make  absolutely  real  to  us  the 
tale  of  Alkestis  :  first,  that  reverent  and  unques- 
tioning belief  in  the  gods  of  his  race  which  was 
a   living  faith    in  iEschylos,  and   to  which,  as    a 


90  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

dramatic  artist  at  least,  Sophocles  also  held  firm ; 
and  secondly,  the  power  to  make  his  plot  develop 
so  naturally  out  of  itself  that  there  should  be  no 
bounding  line  crossed  between  reality  and  parable, 
but  even  the  tale  of  rescue  from  the  clutch  of  Tha- 
natos  should  be  believed,  for  the  moment,  because 
inseparably  interwoven  in  the  drama. 

And  yet !  even  while  they  are  uttered,  these  words 
seem  the  expression  of  blackest  ingratitude.  There 
can  be  no  lasting  truce  in  the  strife  which  has  al- 
ways  divided  the  readers  of  Euripides,  ancient  and 
modern ;  for  even  the  soul  of  the  solitary  stu- 
dent is  divided  against  itself,  —  at  one  moment 
swayed  and  entranced  by  resistless  power,  and  in 
the  next  instant  roused  to  the  fiercest  criticism  by 
the  poet's  contradictions,  by  his  baffling  silences, 
by  the  base  alloy  in  his  noblest  conceptions. 

Yet  even  herein  lies,  perchance,  the  highest  proof 
of  the  magician's  wondrous  power.  The  wand  of 
poetic  imagination  bids  spirits  reveal  themselves, 
too  mighty  to  obey  even  their  creator's  will.  They 
vanish  again  into  a  world  where  human  thought 
cannot  follow  and  tarry.  Is  his  appeal  to  us  the 
less  strong  for  that  ?  When  the  poet's  fancy  rises 
highest  to  divine  imaginings,  only  to  feel  more  bit- 
terly the  fall  into  doubt  and  despair,  is  there  no 
answering  voice  of  sympathy  in  the  eager  heart  of 
man  ? 

The  loveliest  of  all  his  creations,  the  ideal  of  fair 
young  wifehood  and  motherhood,  loving  and  cling- 
ing to  life,  yet  facing  death  without  shrinking  or 


THE  ALKESTIS.  91 

repining,  Alkestis  takes  human  shape  before  our 
eyes  against  a  background  of  mystery,  to  which  the 
poet's  hand  could  give  no  firm  and  satisfying  out- 
lines. Traced  in  dim,  wavering  forms,  we  see  afar 
the  words  Atonement  and  Resurrection.  Have 
later  voices,  whether  inspired  from  within  or  with- 
out, interpreted  the  meaning  of  these  words  so 
plainly  to  men  that  we  may  unhesitatingly  con- 
demn him  whose  valor  shuddered  at  that  high  em- 
prise ? 

As  for  the  human  side  of  his  creations,  at  least, 
the  poet  may  utter  proudly  to  us  the  words  of  his 
own  Heracles  :  — 

"  No  necromancer  hast  thou  made  thy  guest." 

The  haughty  young  athlete  and  huntsman,  Hippo- 
lytos ;  Medea,  of  the  gloomy  brows  and  murderous 
heart ;  the  dying  Iphigenia,  fragrant  as  a  drooping 
violet,  —  these  are  not  faintly  seen  and  fleeting- 
shades  from  pallid  Erebos.  The  warm  life-blood 
glows  in  their  lips  and  cheeks.  These,  and  many 
others  only  less  vivid  than  they,  once  known,  abide 
with  us  as  real  and  near  as  those  who  have  walked 
and  talked  with  us :  perhaps,  as  Schiller  insists, 
more  real  than  they. 

"  Ever  young  is  Phantasy  alone. 
That  which  never,  nowhere,  came  to  pass, 
That  alone  shall  nevermore  grow  old  !  " 

Even  from  this  mere  sketch  of  a  drama,  less  in  ex- 
tent than  a  single  act  of  Don  Carlos,  intended  only 
for    the    melodramatic    afterpiece    of   the    sterner 


92  THREE   DRAMAS   OF   EURIPIDES. 

tragic  trilogy,  there  steps  forth  to  tarry  with  us, 
forever  young-  and  fair,  the  starry-eyed  Alkestis. 
Before  we  turn  in  cold  criticism  from  her  poet,  let 
us  bethink  us  how  much  poorer  the  lovely  world  of 
the  ideal  would  seem  if  she  had  never  been. 

We  have,  however,  interrupted  with  too  long  a 
digression  the  words  of  Heracles.  Turning  about 
to  depart  at  once,  he  says  to  the  king : 

But  lead  the  lady  in ;  and  all  thy  life, 
Admetos,  just  and  hospitable  live. 

(It  was  remarked  upon  a  former  passage,  that 
some  students  have  regarded  this  whole  tale  as  a 
glorification  of  hospitality  in  the  person  of  Ad- 
metos.) 

And  now,  farewell  :   the  task  appointed  me 

By  Sthenelos'  royal  son  I  go  to  do. 

ADMETOS. 

I  pray  thee  stay  with  us,  and  share  our  home. 

HERACLES. 

Some  day  it  shall  be.     Now  I  needs  must  haste. 

ADMETOS. 

May  luck  go  with  thee,  and  bring  thee  back  to  us. 

[Exit  Heracles. 
My  townsmen,  and  my  subjects  all,  I  bid 
With  choric  songs  to  hail  this  happy  event. 
And  make  the  altars  smoke  with  thankful  gifts  ; 
For  now  my  life  is  new,  and  happier  than 
Of  old  —  for  so  do  I  proclaim  my  joy. 

It  is  quite  clear  that  no  curtain  fell  between 
spectators  and  actors.  Admetos  now  leads  his  si- 
lent queen  into  the  palace,  and  the  old  men  of  the 


THE  ALKLSTIS.  93 

chorus  file  out  of  the  orchestra  to  the  marching 
rhythm  of  the  following-  anapaests,  with  which  the 
play  closes. 

CHORUS. 

The  ways  of  the  gods  are  manifold  ; 
Much  unforeseen  they  bring  to  pass  ; 
What  men  have  expected  is  unfulfilled, 
For  what  we  expect  not  a  god  finds  way, 
And  so  has  it  fared  in  this  matter. 

These  rather  commonplace  lines  are  found  also  at 
the  close  of  four  other  Euripidean  dramas.  God- 
frey Hermann,  the  great  German  critic,  thought 
they  were  used  when  more  elaborate  verses  would 
have  been  lost  in  the  confusion  among  the  audience 
at  the  end  of  the  play.  At  any  rate,  they  do  not 
seem  especially  fitting  or  striking  here,  and  do  not 
allay  the  feeling  of  partial  disappointment  with 
which  we  turn  away  from  the  play. 

The  attempt  has  been  made  here  to  give,  so  far 
as  may  be,  both  the  form  and  the  spirit  of  this 
strange  and  tantalizing  romantic  drama.  The 
words  are,  it  is  hoped,  truly  rendered.  The  melo- 
dious cadences  of  the  Greek  verse  no  translation 
can  imitate.  The  harmonies  of  the  choric  songs 
and  their  instrumental  accompaniment,  the  rich  col- 
ors of  costume  and  scenery,  above  all  the  throbbing 
life  of  the  imperial  city  herself,  that  national  spirit 
which  gave  a  glorious  meaning  to  the  great  state 
festival,  inspiring  poet  and  actor,  as  well  as  sculp- 
tor  and    painter,    to    outdo    themselves    for   dear 


94  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

Athens'  sake,  —  all  this  is  lost  forever  to  our  mod- 
ern eyes  and  ears  and  hearts.  And  so  the  drama 
is  at  best  a  fragment,  a  torso,  after  all. 

A  thought  akin  to  this  the  translator  has  tried 
to  express  in  the  lines  which  may  be  set  here  as  the 
envoi  of  his  version. 

ENVOI. 

At  times,  when,  on  a  lonely  way  and  long, 

The  rain  and  darkness  quench  the  final  gleam 
Of  fading  twilight,  weary  pilgrims  deem 

That  troops  of  dim  majestic  figures  throng 

The  unending  corridors  of  thought  along ; 
And  faintly,  far  away,  they  hear,  or  seem 
To  hear,  like  music  from  a  breaking  dream, 

The  choric  harmonies  of  Attic  song. 

More  faint  and  far  and  fleeting,  gentle  friends 
To  whom  may  never  come  her  living  voice, 

In  the  harsh  accents  of  our  native  speech 
An  echo  here  Alkestis'  lover  sends. 

If  one  sweet  haunting  tone  your  hearts  shall  reach, 
So  may  he  doubly  in  his  task  rejoice. 


THE  MEDEA. 

It  has  been  mentioned  already  that  Euripides 
first  contended  for  the  prize  at  the  Dionysiac  festi- 
val in  the  year  455  B.  C. ;  and  it  is  interesting  to  no- 
tice that  the  title  of  his  first  tragedy,  the  "Daugh- 
ters of  Pelias,"  shows  that  his  attention  had  even 
then  been  drawn  to  the  tale  of  Medea.  The  series 
of  dramas  from  which  the  Medea  alone  remains  to 
us  was  brought  out  in  431  b.  C,  and  "  won  third 
prize,"  i.  e.,  was  adjudged  inferior  to  both  the  rival 
poets,  Euphorion  and  Sophocles.  Euphorion  was 
-ZEschylos'  son,  and  seems  to  have  been  deeply  im- 
bued with  the  paternal  spirit.  Indeed,  tradition 
reports  that  he  gained  the  prize  four  times  with  his 
father's  posthumous  works.  The  result  of  this 
contest  may  therefore  be  accepted  as  a  valuable  in- 
dication in  regard  to  the  comparative  popularity  of 
the  three  most  illustrious  tragic  writers  at  the  time 
when  the  Peloponnesian  war  began.  Toward  the 
close  of  his  own  life,  however,  and  still  more  in 
later  antiquity,  the  popularity  and  influence  of 
Euripides  were  unrivaled. 

The  legend  of  Medea  is,  to  us  at  least,  a  pecu- 
liarly harrowing  and  painful  one.  Perhaps  it  is 
more  distressing  for  us  than  to  the  original  Athe- 
nian auditors.     We  fancy  that  children,  as  individ- 


96  THREE   DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

uals,  are  nearer  to  us  than  to  the  ancients,  who  seem 
to  have  valued  their  offspring,  after  all,  mainly  as 
the  means  of  perpetuating  the  unbroken  life  of  the 
family. 

But  apart  from  the  desire  to  complete  a  definitely 
limited  task,  the  Medea  had  another,  and,  on  the 
whole,  irresistible  attraction.  It  illustrates,  prob- 
ably, better  than  any  other  play  of  our  author,  cer- 
tain characteristics  regularly  found  in  good  Greek 
work,  which  are  rightly  regarded  as  essential  to 
any  truly  artistic  creation. 

Now,  no  sensible  man  desires  a  resuscitation  of 
Greek  forms  and  Greek  subjects  in  dramatic  art, 
any  more  than  in  architecture  or  painting.  We 
are  the  children  of  our  own  age  and  land,  and  no 
work  of  our  hands  or  of  our  imagination  can  have 
the  highest  value  and  vitality  which  is  not  the  ut- 
terance of  our  experience,  of  our  aspiration.  But 
there  are  some  canons  of  art  which  are  true  every- 
where and  always,  whose  observance  does  not  de- 
stroy our  liberty,  whose  neglect  is  fatal  to  every 
attempt  at  the  creation  of  the  beautiful. 

All  discussions  of  the  theory  and  laws  of  dra- 
matic composition  begin  with  Aristotle.  This 
greatest  of  philosophers  was  born  in  384  B.  c, 
—  twenty  years  after  the  death  of  Sophocles  and 
Euripides.  All  the  tragedies  of  the  great  writers 
which  we  possess  were  composed  between  480  and 
405  b.  c.  Evidently,  therefore,  Aristotle's  theo- 
ries had  no  controlling  influence  upon  the  actual 
development  of   the  tragic    art   in  Athens.      His 


THE   MEDEA.  97 

treatise  "  On  the  Poetic  Art "  is  very  brief,  frag- 
mentary, and  obscure  in  many  parts.  The  section 
upon  tragedy  is  the  most  satisfactory  portion,  yet 
even  this  consists  of  only  a  few  short  chapters  ; 
and  these  are  usually  not  dogmatic  in  tone,  but 
rather  an  attempt  to  deduce  certain  principles  from 
the  actual  practice  of  the  great  dramatists  in  the 
previous  century.  Aristotle  was  especially  under 
the  influence,  as  it  seems,  of  Sophocles'  play 
"  CEdipus  the  King,"  which  has  indeed  the  most 
perfectly  organized  plot,  but  also  the  most  revolt- 
ing subject,  of  all  Greek  plays  known  to  us.  Nearly 
everything  Aristotle  says  of  tragedy  in  general  fits 
this  drama  better  than  any  other. 

But  modern  critics,  especially  in  France,  have 
attempted  to  force  upon  tragic  poets  an  ironclad 
code  of  limitations,  and  have  tried  to  claim  Aris- 
totle's authority  for  these  tyrannical  and  cramping 
laws.  Most  famous  of  all  are  the  three  so-called 
"  Aristotelian  unities :  "  unity  of  place,  of  time,  of 
plot.  That  is,  the  events  of  the  drama  must  have 
all  occurred  at  very  nearly  the  same  spot,  they  must 
all  have  happened  on  the  same  day,  and  they  must 
all  tend  either  to  bring  about,  or  to  solve,  a  single 
complication  or  problem,  on  which  the  interest  of 
the  spectator  is  concentrated. 

Now,  these  three  laws  are  of  very  different  au- 
thority and  value.  As  for  unity  of  place,  this  re- 
quirement has  no  authority  in  Aristotle  at  all !  To 
be  sure,  changes  of  scene  are  rather  rare  in  Greek 
plays.     That  is  a  part  of  their  general  simplicity. 


98  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

Still  there  are  examples,  as  in  the  Eumenides,  the 
first  scenes  of  which  are  supposed  to  occur  in  Del- 
phi at  the  oracular  shrine,  while  the  later  ones  are 
laid  in  Athens,  at  first  in  Pallas'  temple,  then  on 
the  Areopagos.  Under  such  circumstances,  we  are 
told,  a  prism-shaped  structure  on  each  side  of  the 
stage  partially  revolved,  bringing  into  view  a  dif- 
ferent setting  for  the  new  scene. 

As  to  the  unity  of  time,  Aristotle  refers  to  it 
simply  as  a  prevailing  tendency  or  characteristic 
of  the  drama  as  distinguished  from  other  forms  of 
poetry.  Thus  he  remarks  in  one  passage  :  "  Epic 
poetry  is  like  tragedy,  in  that  it  is  a  picture 
of  serious  matters."  Then,  after  mentioning  met- 
rical differences,  "  And  yet  again  "  (epic  and  tra- 
gedy differ)  "  as  to  duration,  since  the  one  generally 
endeavors  to  come  within  a  single  revolution  of  the 
sun  or  not  greatly  to  exceed  it,  but  the  epic  is  un- 
limited in  time."  The  general  principle  is  a  sound 
one.  The  modern  plays  in  which  ten  or  twenty 
years  elapse  between  the  first  and  second  act,  give 
quite  too  violent  a  wrench  to  the  imagination.  We 
do  not  demand  upon  the  stage  absolute  realism, 
but  we  must  not  be  too  rudely  reminded  that  what 
the  poet  presents  to  our  eyes  is  utterly  impossible. 
A  Greek  play  generally  does  represent  the  events 
of  a  single  day.  But  the  chief  reason  probably 
was,  that  no  curtain  fell  between  the  scenes,  and 
the  action  was  not  really  interrupted  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  Yet  exceptions  occur  here  also. 
Orestes'    flight    from    Delphi    to    Athens    in    the 


THE  MEDEA.  99 

middle  of  the  Eumenides  has  been  alluded  to  al- 
ready. Quite  a  long  time  elapses  between  the  two 
scenes.  In  the  Agamemnon,  also,  by  many  regarded 
as  iEschylos'  masterpiece,  the  signal -fire  flashed 
by  a  line  of  beacon-fires  from  Troy  to  Mycenae  at 
the  beginning  announces  that  the  beleaguered  city 
has  just  fallen.  Yet  a  few  hundred  lines  later, 
Agamemnon  comes  riding  in  upon  his  chariot, 
although  the  voyage  back  to  Argolis  would  require 
several  days.  In  this  case,  however,  there  has  been 
no  break  in  the  action,  and  the  poet  must  either 
have  forgotten  the  exact  circumstances,  or,  more 
probably,  trusted  that  his  rapt  auditors  would  do 
so.  This  last  consideration  is  indeed  the  only  final 
test.  In  the  matter  of  "  stage  time,"  as  in  almost 
every  other  respect,  the  conventions  of  the  theatre 
necessarily  leave  the  dramatist  an  undefined  liberty 
beyond  the  bounds  of  absolute  realism.  When  the 
improbability  is  so  glaring  as  to  force  itself  upon 
the  spectator's  attention,  then  "  freedom  grows 
license,"  because  the  dramatic  effect  is  weakened. 

To  take  one  more  example  from  the  same  poet, 
the  three  tragedies  in  which  Prometheus  figured 
were  evidently  performed  together,  and  are  what 
we  would  consider  the  three  acts  of  one  Titanic 
drama.  Yet,  in  the  one  play,  the  hero  is  chained 
to  the  cliff  and  converses  with  the  persecuted 
maiden  Io,  whose  future  wanderings  and  adven- 
tures he  foretells  :  and  in  the  next,  he  is  released 
from  the  rock  by  Heracles,  descendant  of  Io  in  the 
thirteenth  generation!     Indeed,  Prometheus  him- 


100  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

self  remarks,  in  a  surviving  fragment  of  the  last 
play  of  the  trilogy,  that  he  was  impaled  in  the 
gorge  thirty  thousand  years  :  but  that  is  doubtless 
a  pardonable  exaggeration,  occasioned  by  the  ex- 
treme wearisomeness  of  his  position. 

To  sum  up,  then,  there  is  nothing  in  the  practice 
of  the  ancient  dramatists,  nor  in  the  precepts  of 
Aristotle,  which  forbids  a  moderate  freedom  in 
changing  the  scene  during  the  action  of  a  tragedy, 
or  in  supposing  time  to  elapse  between  the  acts. 
Indeed,  our  drop-curtains  and  elaborate  scenery 
give  us  in  this  respect  a  great  advantage  over  the 
ancients,  which  the  dramatic  artist  should  not  dis- 
regard. The  classic  French  dramas,  e.  g,,  the  tra- 
gedies of  Racine,  conform  almost  slavishly  to  these 
requirements  of  unity,  and,  partly  for  that  very 
reason,  have  at  times  a  rigidity  and  lifelessness 
which  lovers  of  Shakespeare  and  of  nature  find 
hard  to  endure. 

The  third  requirement,  unity  of  plot,  is  a  very 
different  matter.  Not  only  Aristotle,  but  every 
great  critic,  ancient  and  modern,  gives  the  utmost 
prominence  to  this  law  of  art.  Not  the  drama 
alone,  but  sculpture,  painting,  architecture,  all  the 
arts,  indeed  human  life  itself,  must  listen  to  the 
command :  Let  your  aim  be  single.  Undertake 
one  thing  at  a  time,  and  let  every  detail  tend  to  its 
accomplishment. 

We  may  venture,  then,  to  use  some  of  the  same 
expressions  in  describing  a  good  drama  which 
would  be  applicable  to  a  noble  piece  of  sculpture 


THE  MEDEA.  101 

or  to  a  great  painting.  For  each,  we  may  insist 
on  unity  of  action,  simplicity  in  design,  complete 
subordination  of  every  detail  to  th'e  gepeu&l  effect. 

Such  canons  we  need  not  fear  to'  &jFp!y  even  to^ ' 
the  myriad-minded  one  himself.'  Let  iv$"  It,ok  at' ■ 
any  Shakespearean  di*ama  ;  for '  example',  'Othello. 
The  sole  subject  is  the  jealousy  of  the  Moor.  Not 
a  character,  a  scene,  a  line,  exists  for  any  other 
purpose  than  to  illustrate  this  terrible  passion.  The 
plot  could  not  be  simpler.  The  incidents  are  in 
themselves  trifles  light  as  air.  The  drama  is  but 
the  swift  current  of  Othello's  suspicions,  as  it  hur- 
ries him  on  to  murder  and  self-destruction.  The 
dusky  hero  is  always  the  central  object  of  interest ; 
or  should  be. 

When  Edwin  Booth  throws  all  his  genius  into 
a  purely  subordinate  part,  while  the  character  of 
the  high-hearted  Moor  himself,  stripped  of  half  its 
lines,  is  assigned  to  some  dull,  aimless  declaimer, 
what  an  unmeaning  string  of  scenes  does  the  drama 
appear  to  us,  and  how  unmoved  do  we  leave  the 
theatre !  But  when  Salvini  fuses  the  force  of  his 
mighty  personality  with  the  heroic  nature  of  Othello, 
then  it  matters  not  whether  his  words  are  familiar 
or  meaningless  to  us.  We  have  no  strength  to  criti- 
cise, or  even  to  resist.  We  are  hurried  along,  help- 
less, in  the  rushing  stream  of  action.  This  is 
tragedy  indeed,  according  to  the  definition  of  Aris- 
totle, purifying,  through  the  terror  and  pity  it  ex- 
cites, the  emotions  of  men. 

This  law  of  dramatic  unity  Euripides    did  not 


102      THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

always  observe.  There  are  some  plays  of  his  which 
are  too  much  like  panoramas  of  disconnected  scenes. 
Jn  almost  every  play  there  are  digressions,  long 
or  shoi't,  v.^ch,  seem  to  be  elaborated  for  their 
,  own ,  sakcv  instead  of  being  strictly  subordinate  to 
the  central  plot.  From  such  faults  the  Medea  is 
more  nearly  free  than  any  other  Euripidean  drama, 
as  even  our  poet's  severest  critics  generally  agree. 

Moreover,  the  dramatist,  alone  among  literary 
artists,  since  he  appeals  to  eye  as  well  as  ear,  has 
the  power  to  illustrate  the  harmony  of  his  design 
by  the  grouping  of  the  actual  figures  upon  the 
stage.  Such  an  intention  is  clearly  indicated  by 
the  text  of  several  among  the  most  faultless  classi- 
cal dramas  still  existing.  Three  in  particular  will 
occur  at  once  to  the  mind  of  the  student,  wherein 
the  chief  figure  occupies  during  the  whole  action, 
or  through  most  of  the  scenes,  a  position  which 
may  well  have  reminded  the  Athenians  of  the  cen- 
tral figure  in  a  temple  pediment,  such  as  the  Apollo 
upon  the  Olympian  sanctuary  of  Zeus.  The  tra- 
gedies in  question  are  the  Prometheus  Bound,  the 
CEdipus  at  Colonos,  and  the  Medea. 

A  prime  requisite  for  a  drama  of  this  kind  is  a 
strong  central  character,  upon  which  may  be  con- 
centrated the  chief  interest  of  the  plot.  Such  a 
personage  is,  in  the  present  play,  the  terrible  bar- 
barian princess,  who  murders  her  sons  to  punish 
her  husband's  faithlessness. 

This  tale  is  by  no  means  purely  the  invention  of 
Euripides.    Like  every  important  myth,  the  legend 


THE   MEDEA.  103 

of  Medea  had  acquired. new  and  often  contradic- 
tory features  in  the  course  of  centuries,  whether  in 
the  process  of  popular  tradition,  or  through  the 
conscious  additions  of  the  poets.  Moreover,  it  is 
difficult  to  doubt  the  positive  assertion  of  the 
ancient  Greek  annotator,  resting  on  the  strong 
authority  of  Aristotle  himself,  that  Euripides  bor- 
rowed his  plot  almost  bodily  from  a  rival  drama- 
tist, named  Neophron.  Yet  the  tragedy  of  our 
poet  has  overshadowed  and  outlived  not  only  the 
work  of  Neophron,  but  many  later  attempts  upon 
the  same  theme. 

Euripides'  skill  is  chiefly  shown  in  so  leading  up 
to  the  catastrophe,  so  clearly  revealing  the  feelings 
and  the  motives  of  the  injured  wife,  that  we  at  any 
rate  comprehend  her  action :  while  our  sympathy 
for  her  wrongs  and  sufferings  is  at  least  so  great 
that  we  are  the  more  moved  by  her  awful  crime. 
Of  course  neither  poet  nor  auditor  can  be  in  real 
sympathy  with  Medea,  and  though  so  much  genius 
is  expended  in  the  effort  to  make  her  deed  intel- 
ligible and  credible,  yet  the  dramatist  would  no 
doubt  assent,  as  Medea  herself  apparently  does,  to 
the  declaration  of  Jason,  near  the  close  of  the 
play:  — 

"  No  Grecian  woman  ever  could  have  done 
This  deed." 

For  such  a  drama  of  uncontrollable  passion  the 
artist  naturally  sought  his  characters,  not  among 
the  generation  made  familiar  to  us  by  the  Homeric 
poems,  but  in  that  earlier  age  of   mightier  men 


104  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

and  women,  when  the  monsters  were  slain,  the 
robbers  quelled,  and  the  land  made  habitable  for 
mankind  :  the  time  of  Heracles,  of  Theseus,  and  of 
Jason.  For  it  seems  quite  clear  that  the  genius  of 
Homer,  —  or  let  us  say,  of  the  Homeric  school,  — 
has  unduly  glorified  a  race  of  men  who  by  no 
means  belong  to  the  Golden  Age  of  Greek  mythol- 
ogy.     Despite  the  haughty  assertion  of  Sthenelos, 

"Surely  we  claim  to  be  men   who   are  mightier  far  than  the 
fathers !  ' ' 

the  poet  of  the  Iliad  himself  is  in  evident  agree- 
ment with  Nestor,  who  exclaims : 
"  Never  such  men  have  I  seen,  nor  shall  I  hereafter  behold  them," 

as  those  among  whom  his  own  youth  was  spent, 
two  generations  before.  Homer,  for  instance,  is 
quite  aware  that  Heracles  sacked,  almost  single- 
handed,  the  city  before  which  Agamemnon's  host 
has  lingered  for  ten  weary  years.  At  any  rate,  all 
three  of  these  earlier  dramas  of  Euripides  draw 
their  subject-matter  from  that  earlier  time.  Hera- 
cles will  be  remembered  as  the  hero  of  the  Al- 
kestis.  Theseus  is  an  essential  character  of  the 
Hippolytos,  and  Jason  plays  a  part,  but  a  most 
unheroic  part,  in  the  Medea. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  narrate  the  entire  legend 
of  Jason  and  Medea.  The  English  reader  who  is 
not  familiar  with  William  Morris'  poem,  the  Life 
and  Death  of  Jason,  can  hardly  find  a  pleasanter 
task  wherewith  to  gild  an  idle  summer.  Perhaps 
a  comparison  of  Morris'  poem  with  the  still  more 


THE   MEDEA.  105 

graceful  Helen  of  Troy,  by  Andrew  Lang,  may 
serve  to  test  the  truth  of  the  assertion,  that  the 
quest  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  rather  than  the  war 
against  Ilium,  was  the  true  culmination  of  Greek 
mythic  heroism,  and  better  deserved  a  Homer  to 
sing  its  glories. 

Medea  is  the  king's  daughter  in  the  land  of 
enchantment  to  which  Jason,  commander  of  the 
Argo,  comes  in  quest  of  the  Golden  Fleece.  But 
for  her  sudden  devotion  to  him,  Jason  must  surely 
have  failed  and  perished  miserably.  After  per- 
forming the  labors  imposed  upon  him  and  secur- 
ing the  Fleece,  through  the  princess'  aid,  the 
hero  escaped  with  her  from  her  father's  realm,  and 
after  many  adventures  reached  in  safety  his  old 
Thessalian  home  in  Iolcos.  Here  Medea  per- 
suaded the  daughters  of  Jason's  hated  uncle,  the 
usurping  king  Pelias,  to  kill  their  aged  father,  and 
boil  his  body  in  a  cauldron  ;  promising  to  restore 
him  by  her  incantations  to  life  and  youth.  She 
had  previously  demonstrated  her  power  by  boiling 
an  old  ram  and  producing  a  live  lamb  :  but  over 
the  human  victim  she  refused  to  utter  the  potent 
word.  This  scene  was  probably  a  part  of  Euripi- 
des' first  tragedy:  and  it  may  be  interesting  to 
recall  that  one  of  these  three  unhappy  daughters 
was  Alkestis. 

For  this  crime,  Jason,  Medea,  and  their  two 
little  sons  have  been  driven  into  exile,  and  have 
taken  refuge  in  Corinth.  Here  Jason  has  found 
favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  royal  family,  and  has  ac- 


106  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

cepted  the  opportunity  to  wed  the  daughter  of  the 
monarch  Creon.  His  connection  with  the  barba- 
rian Medea  would  hardly  be  regarded  by  Greeks 
as  a  legal  marriage,  and  it  does  not  appear  that  he 
has  gone  through  any  form  of  divorcing  her.  At 
this  point  the  play  opens. 

This  Medea  of  the  local  Corinthian  myth  was 
originally  a  beneficent  divinity,  and  in  earlier  forms 
of  the  legend  her  children  are  treacherously  slain 
by  the  Corinthians  themselves.  Indeed,  there  was 
an  absurd  story  current  in  antiquity,  perhaps 
started  by  some  jest  of  a  comic  poet,  that  the  Co- 
rinthians bribed  the  dramatist  to  attribute  the  mur- 
der to  the  mother  herself !  This  Corinthian  Me- 
dea probably  had  no  original  connection  with  the 
sorceress  in  the  far-off  Occident,  or  Orient,  who 
aids  the  Argonauts  to  secure  the  Golden  Fleece. 
They  are  thought  to  be  two  distinct  examples  of  the 
ever-recurring  sun-myth,  —  or  rather,  in  this  case, 
moon-myth. 

It  is  however  quite  clear  that  Euripides  did  not 
regard  Medea  as  the  dual  product  of  a  fused  pair  of 
myths.  Still  less  had  he  any  suspicion  of  the  ori- 
gin since  discovered  for  his  ancestors'  legends  in 
the  red  clouds  of  sunset.  No  disrespect  is  intended 
toward  this  meteorological  explanation  for  all  our 
favorite  tales.  We  dare  not  even  join  merry  An- 
drew Lang  in  laughing  at  the  disagreements  of  the 
masters  in  applying  their  methods  of  analysis.  But 
a  student  certainly  should  not  keep  such  theories 
in  mind  while  studying  a  Greek  play.     No  doubt 


THE  MEDEA.  107 

Medea,  sprung  from  Helios,  is  a  mere  personifica- 
tion of  the  moon.  Perhaps  her  short-lived  chil- 
dren, slain  by  their  mother,  are  only  stars  that  wane 
before  the  rising  queen  of  night.  But  to  the  poet, 
and  certainly  to  the  Athenian  auditors,  Medea  was 
a  real  and  terrible  woman.  They  woidd  no  more 
have  suffered  her  story  to  be  explained  away  as  a 
mere  fanciful  description  of  natural  phenomena, 
than  they  would  have  permitted  the  same  analysis 
to  be  applied  to  —  Aspasia,  or  Xantippe  ! 

The  drama  represents  the  events  of  a  single  day, 
perhaps  the  one  follows  Jason's  new  nuptials.  The 
whole  action  occurs  before  the  house  in  Corinth 
occupied  by  Medea  and  her  sons,  Jason  having 
already  taken  up  his  abode  in  the  royal  palace. 
The  Prologue  is  opened  with  the  appearance  of 
the  nurse,  lamenting  her  mistress'  wrongs.  This 
character,  the  nurse,  bears  a  close  resemblance  to 
the  loquacious  confidante  of  Phaidra  in  the  Hip- 
polytos :  but  like  all  the  minor  personages  in  this 
drama,  she  is  almost  entirely  overshadowed  by  her 
imperious  and  passionate  mistress. 

PROLOGUE. 

nurse  {coming  from  the  house). 
Ah,  would  that  Argo's  hull  had  flitted  not 
Toward  Colchis  through  the  dusky  Smiting  Rocks, 
Nor  ever  fallen  in  Pelion's  dales  the  pine, 
Hewn  by  the  axe,  to  fill  with  oars  the  hands 
Of  valiant  heroes,  who  for  Pelias  sought     . 
The  fleece  of  gold  ! 


108  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

For  then  Medea  my  queen 
Unto  Iulkia's  towers  had  never  sailed, 
Her  heart  with  love  for  Jason  quite  distraught, 
Nor,  bidding  Pelias'  daughters  slay  their  sire, 
Had  she  to  Corinth  hither  come  to  dwell, 
With  spouse  and  children.     Dear  indeed  was  she 
To  those  whose  land  in  exile  she  approached. 
With  Jason  too  she  dwelt  in  harmony. 
The  mightiest  security  is  this, 
When  wife  from  husband  does  not  hold  aloof. 

Now  all  is  enmity :  their  love  has  waned. 
For,  leaving  his  own  children  and  my  queen, 
Jason  is  wedded  with  a  royal  bride : 
Has  married  Creon's  child,  who  lords  the  land. 
Medea,  unhappy  woman,  so  disgraced, 
Proclaims  his  oaths,  invokes  that  mightiest  pledge, 
His  hand-clasp,  calls  the  gods  for  witnesses 
What  recompense  from  Jason  she  receives. 
Fasting  she  lies,  and  gives  herself  to  grief, 
Wasting  away  in  tears  the  livelong  time, 
Since  she  has  known  her  husband  does  her  wrong ; 
Nor  lifts  her  eyes,  nor  raises  from  the  ground 
Her  face,  —  but  like  a  rock  or  ocean-wave 
She  hearkens,  being  chidden  of  her  friends. 
Except  that  sometimes  bending  her  white  neck 
She  to  herself  laments  her  well-loved  sire, 
Her  land,  her  home,  which  she  betrayed  to  come 
With  him  who  treats  her  now  disdainfully. 
Calamity  has  taught  the  wretched  one 
How  well  it  is  to  have  a  fatherland. 

Her  sons  she  hates,  nor  gladly  looks  on  them. 
I  fear  her,  lest  she  plot  some  desperate  deed. 
Her  soul  is  violent,  nor  will  she  endure 


THE   MEDEA.  109 

To  suffer  wrong.     I  dread,  who  know  her  well. 
A  fearful  woman  !     Nor  will  he  who  strives 
With  her  bear  off  with  ease  the  victor's  prize. 
But  lo,  the  children,  ceasing  from  their  play, 
Approach,  unconscious  of  their  mother's  woes. 
Not  prone  to  sorrow  is  the  childish  heart. 

Throughout  this  drama  the  poet's  imagination 
seems  full  of  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  sea. 
Allusions  to  the  far  and  adventurous  voyages  of 
Medea,  and  especially  to  the  Symplegades,  or  Smit- 
ing Rocks,  through  which  the  Argo  barely  passed 
uncrushed,  recur  again  and  again.  Most  of  the 
metaphors,  even,  are  distinctly  nautical. 

The  children  enter,  attended  by  the  pedagogue, 
—  not  a  schoolmaster,  but  an  old  slave  who  must 
accompany  them  everywhere  outside  the  house.  It 
will  be  observed  that  no  one  has  any  good  words 
for  Jason.  The  undivided  sympathy  of  chorus 
and  characters  is  with  Medea,  at  least  so  long  as 
she  is  only  suffering  wrong,  and  not  retaliating. 

The  two  gray-haired  slaves  condole  with  one  an- 
other over  the  sorrows  of  the  house. 

PEDAGOGUE. 

Thou  ancient  chattel  of  my  lady's  house, 
Why,  keeping  lonely  vigil  at  the  gates, 
Standest  thou,  muttering  to  thyself  of  ills  ? 
Why  will  Medea  that  thou  leave  her  thus  ? 

NURSE. 

Thou  aged  guardian  of  Jason's  sons, 

To  faithful  slaves  the  troubles  of  their  lords 

Are  a  calamity,  and  touch  their  hearts. 


110  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

And  I  am  plunged  in  such  a  depth  of  grief, 

That  hither  I  did  long  to  come,  and  tell 

To  earth  and  heaven  the  sorrows  of  my  queen. 

(This  is  the  dramatic  justification  for  the  long 
opening  soliloquy  of  the  nurse,  which  was  utilized 
by  the  poet  to  make  clear  the  situation  when  the 
drama  begins.) 

PEDAGOGUE. 

Nor  yet  the  wretched  one  has  ceased  to  wail  ? 

NURSE. 

I  envy  thee,  who  hast  learned  not  half  her  woe. 
The  old  man  murmurs  in  his  beard  to  himself. 

PEDAGOGUE. 

Foolish !  if  one  may  speak  of  masters  so, 
For  nothing  of  these  later  ills  she  knows. 

NURSE. 

What  is  it,  aged  man  ?     Grudge  not  to  tell. 

PEDAGOGUE. 

Nothing.     E'en  what  I  said  I  do  repent. 

NURSE. 

Hide  it  not,  prithee,  from  thy  fellow-slave, 
For  I,  if  there  is  need,  will  hold  my  peace. 

And  quite  ready  to  share  the  burden  of  these  fresh 
tidings  of  evil,  the  pedagogue  replies : 

PEDAGOGUE. 

I  heard  it  said,  appearing  not  to  hear, 

Approaching  where  the  elders  play  at  draughts, 

Sitting  about  Peirene's  holy  spring, 

That  Creon,  ruler  of  this  land,  intends 

To  drive  these  children  with  their  mother  forth 


THE  MEDEA.  Ill 

From  Corinth.     If  indeed  the  tale  be  true 
I  know  not :  but  would  wish  it  might  not  be. 

NUKSE. 

Will  Jason  leave  his  sons  to  suffer  thus, 
Though  with  the  mother  he  is  at  variance  ? 

PEDAGOGUE. 

The  older  ties  are  weaker  than  the  new ; 
He  is  no  more  a  lover  of  this  home. 

NURSE. 

We  are  lost  indeed,  if,  added  to  the  old, 
Fresh  sorrow  come,  ere  that  is  bailed  away. 

PEDAGOGUE. 

But  since  it  is  not  fit  our  lady  hear 

Of  this  as  yet,  be  still,  nor  tell  the  tale. 

NURSE. 

Hear,  children,  what  your  father  is  toward  you. 
I  will  not  curse  him,  for  he  is  my  lord  ; 
But  toward  his  dear  ones  he  is  proven  base. 

PEDAGOGUE. 

What  mortal  is  not  ?     Dost  thou  learn  but  now 
Each  better  than  his  neighbor  loves  himself  ? 
—  Some  rightly,  some  for  profit,  as  this  sire 
For  wedlock's  sake  no  longer  loves  these  sons. 

To  this  rather  homespun  bit  of  old  man's  pessi- 
mism the  nurse  pays  no  attention,  but  addresses 
the  boys : 

NURSE. 

Go,  children,  for  't  is  best,  within  the  house  — 

Then  turning  to  the  pedagogue, she  continues: 

But  do  thou  keep  them,  as  thou  canst,  apart, 
Nor  bring  them  near  their  mother  in  her  rage  ; 
For  I  have  already  seen  her  glaring  eye, 


112  THREE    DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

That  boded  harm  to  them  :  nor  will  she  cease, 
I  know  full  well,  until  she  smites,  from  wrath. 
But  may  she  wreak  it  not  on  friends,  but  foes  ! 

At  this  instant  the  voice  of  Medea  is  suddenly 
heard  from  within  her  home.  She  speaks  in  the 
anapaestic  metre,  and  with  the  Doric  forms  of  speech, 
usual  in  the  choric  portions  of  tragedy.  The  nurse 
replying  speaks  in  the  same  metre,  but  in  pure 
Attic  dialect.  We  are  reminded  here  of  the  dra- 
mas of  India,  in  which  only  the  chief  personages 
talk  in  Sanskrit,  while  the  baser  characters,  and 
all  women,  use  the  vulgar  speech. 

MEDEA. 

Alas! 
Ill-fated  am  I,  and  wretched  in  woe. 
Ah  me  !  how  may  I  attain  to  my  death  ? 

NURSE. 

Ay,  that  is  her  voice.     Thy  mother,  dear  boys, 
Is  troubled  in  spirit :  her  wrath  has  been  stirred. 
But  haste  ye  more  quickly  within  your  home, 
And  see  that  ye  come  not  before  her  face ; 
Nay,  approach  her  not,  but  guard  ye  well 
Her  ferocious  nature,  the  deadly  force 
Of  her  soul  untamed. 
Go  now,  as  quick  as  ye  may,  within. 

The  boys  and  their  attendant,  who  have  evi- 
dently been  reluctant  to  enter,  now  obey :  and  the 
nurse  continues  in  a  soliloquy  : 

It  is  plain  that  the  storm-cloud  of  grief  that  begins 

Even  now  to  arise,  will  presently  blaze 

With  mightier  fury.     Ah  !     What  will  she  do, 


THE  MEDEA.  113 

That  imperious-hearted  implacable  one 
Whose  soul  has  been  smitten  by  sorrows  ? 

The  boys  have,  however,  not  succeeded  in  elud- 
ing their  infuriated  mother,  and  her  wild  voice  is 
once  more  heard  from  within. 

Woe  !  woe  ! 
I  have  suffered  in  misery,  suffered  a  wrong 
That  deserves  lamentation  !     Ye  children  accurst ! 
May  ye  perish,  who  sprang  from  a  mother  abhorred  ! 
May  your  sire  and  his  house  be  extinguished ! 

NTJRSE  (turning  toward  the  house). 
Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  thou  'rt  bitterly  wronged  ! 
But  what  share  have  the  sons  in  the  deed  of  their  sire  ? 
Why  hatest  thou  them  ?     Ye  children,  alas  ! 
I  am  grievously  worried  lest  ye  may  be  harmed. 

The  passions  of  monarchs  are  fearful  indeed  : 
They  are  ever  commanding  and  rarely  controlled ; 
Not  easily  do  they  relax  their  wrath. 

It  is  better  in  truth  among  equals  to  live. 
For  myself,  though  it  be  not  in  lofty  estate, 
In  security  may  I  at  least  grow  old. 
For  even  the  name  moderation  when  heard 
Outweighs,  and  in  actual  life  it  is  found 
Far  better  for  men  ;  but  power  in  excess 
Is  nowise  a  blessing  for  mortals,  but  brings 
A  heavier  vengeance,  whenever  a  god 
Is  enraged,  on  the  house  in  requital. 

These  last  dozen  lines  may  perhaps  seem  a  di- 
gression, and  they  were  no  doubt  written  with  a 
rather  inartistic  purpose  :  namely,  to  win  the  good- 
will of   a  democratic   audience.     It  must   be  said 


114  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

also  that  we  hear  quite  too  distinctly  the  voice  of 
the  poet  through  the  lips  of  the  nurse.  Still,  these 
reflections  are  suited  to  the  occasion,  quite  orthodox 
and  indeed  somewhat  commonplace.  The  moral  of 
the  miseries  besetting  a  tyrant's  life  is  one  which 
the  ordinary  Athenian  might  draw  from  many  of 
the  tragedies  he  heard.     Here  the  Prologue  ends. 

The  chorus  is  composed  of  Corinthian  matrons, 
and  their  unwavering  devotion  to  Medea,  rather 
than  to  their  own  rulers,  is  not  adequately  explained. 
The  Corinthian  dames,  as  they  march  into  the 
orchestra  from  the  right,  address  in  song  the  old 
nurse  who  still  stands  before  Medea's  gates.  Their 
lyric  stanzas  alternate  throughout  with  bursts  of 
excited  recitative  from  the  nurse  and  from  Medea, 
who  is  still  unseen.  The  whole  is  skillfully  adapted 
to  excite  the  feelings  of  the  audience,  and  render 
them  eager  for  the  appearance  of   the  maddened 

princess. 

PARODOS. 

CHORUS   {entering). 

I  have  heard  the  voice,  I  have  heard  the  cry 
Of  the  wretched  one, 
Of  the  Colchian,  nor  is  she  gentle  yet. 
Speak  to  us,  prithee,  thou  ancient  dame. 
Wails  from  within  have  I  heard  at  the  gate. 
Joyless  to  me  are  the  woes  of  your  home, 
Since  it  is  grown  so  dear  to  me. 

NTIRSE. 

A  home  there  is  none  ;  that  already  is  past ! 
For  he  has  wedded  a  royal  spouse, 


THE   MEDEA.  115 

In  her  chamber  my  lady  is  wasting  away, 
And  in  nowise  the  words  of  one  of  her  friends 
May  bring  to  her  heart  consolation. 

And  her  words  are  more  than  confirmed  by  Medea, 
who  is  now  again  heard  from  within. 

MEDEA. 

Ah  me ! 
Through  my  head  may  the  heavenly  lightning  dart ! 
What  profit  longer  have  I  in  life  ? 
Alas  !     Alas  !     By  death  released 

May  I  flee  an  existence  detested  ! 

CHORUS. 

Hast  thou  heard,  0  Zeus  and  earth  and  sunlight, 

Heard  the  sound  of  lamentation 

Uttered  by  the  wretched  ivife  ? 

Hash  one,  why  shall  this  insatiate 

Passionate  desire  for  wedlock 

Hasten  on  the  end  of  death  ? 

This  by  no  means  shouldst  thou  pray  for. 

If  thy  husband 

Holds  a  newer  tie  in  honor, 

Cherish  not  thy  wrath  at  him. 

Zeus  shall  be  thy  champion. 

Do  not  waste  away  with  wailing 

For  thy  husband  utterly. 

medea   (within). 
O  mightiest  Themis  and  Artemis  queen, 

(Themis   is   goddess  of  justice,  and  Artemis   an 
especial  protectress  of  wives.) 

See  what  I  endure,  though  I  bound  unto  me 
By  the  strongest  of  oaths  my  accursed  spouse ! 
May  I  some  day  behold  botli  himself  and  his  bride 


116  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Along  with  tlieir  palace  to  nothingness  ground  ! 
Since  they  first  ventured  to  do  me  wrong. 
O  father  !   O  city  !  from  which  I  fled, 
Most  shamefully  slaying  my  brother  ! 

NURSE. 

Hear  ye  what  words  she  utters  and  shouts, 
Invoking  Themis  in  prayer,  and  Zeus, 
Who  is  counted  the  keeper  of  mortals'  vows  ? 
It  cannot  be  by  a  trifling  deed 

That  the  queen  will  sate  her  anger. 

Such  a  passage  as  this  always  distresses  and 
perplexes  the  learned  commentators,  ancient  and 
modern.  Medea  had  really  invoked  Themis  and 
Artemis.  The  nurse  describes  her  as  appealing  to 
Themis  and  Zeus.  It  does  not  seem  necessary  to 
mutilate  the  manuscripts,  nor  to  castigate  the  poet 
for  a  lapse  of  memory.  Everybody  is  excited,  and 
the  nurse  shows  her  agitation  by  a  slight  forget- 
fidness. 

CHORUS. 

Would  that  issuing  forth  into  our  presence 
She  would  listen  to  the  accents 
Of  the  words  that  we  would  speak, 
That  her  soul-devouring  anger 
And  her  frenzy  might  be  banished. 
Never  to  my  friends  in  need 
Shall  my  zeal  at  least  be  lacking. 

Go,  and  lead  her 
From  her  habitation  hither  ; 
Tell  her,  too,  our  loving  words. 
Hasten  !     Lest  on  those  ivithin 
Evil  fall:  for  overwhelming 
Is  the  grief  that  now  begins. 


THE  MEDEA.  117 

NURSE. 

This  will  I  do,  but  fear  I  shall  fail 

To  persuade  my  queen  ; 

Yet  the  favor  of  effort  I  freely  will  grant. 

And  still,  like  a  lioness  over  her  whelps 

She  glares  at  her  servants  whenever  each  one 

Attempts  to  approach  her,  and  utters  a  word. 

In  calling  foolish  and  no  way  wise 
The  men  of  old,  thou  wouldst  not  err, 
Who  composed  their  songs  for  occasions  of  joy, 
For  festivals  and  for  banquetings, 
The  sounds  that  bring  us  delight  in  life  ; 
But  never  has  one  yet  learned  to  assuage 
With  music  and  many-stringed  song 
The  hateful  griefs  of  men,  whence  spring 
Deaths  and  disasters  that  ruin  our  homes. 
And  yet,  't  were  a  gain  indeed  if  men 
By  melody  might  be  healed  of  these. 
Where  the  banquet  is  merry,  why  raise  a  vain  shout? 
For  the  feast  of  itself  doth  sate  them  then, 

And  brings  enjoyment  to  mortals. 

This  long  passage  about  music  is  again  a  digres- 
sion. If  the  reader  does  not,  however,  welcome  it 
for  its  own  sake,  he  will  doubtless  at  least  forgive 
the  loquacity  of  the  devoted  old  nurse,  whose  voice 
will  be  heard  no  more. 

CHORUS. 

■  Tearful  teas  the  cry  I  heard. 
She  with  shrill  lament  proclaims 
Him  who  cruelly  betrayed  her. 
Suffering  wrong,  she  calls  on  Themis, 
Child  of  Zeus,  of  oaths  the  guardian, 


118  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Who  across  to  Hellas  led  her, 
Through  the  strait  impenetrable, 
Over  seas  in  darkness  veiled. 

As  the  reader  will  have  foreseen,  the  first  Epi- 
sode opens  with  the  appearance  of  Medea,  for 
which  the  whole  drama  thus  far  has  been  preparing 
us.  Henceforth  she  remains  upon  the  stage  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  play,  and  only  leaves  it  at 
last  upon  an  errand  so  terrible  that  our  imagina- 
tion can  but  follow  her  within.  Her  savage  and 
masterful  figure  dominates  the  changing  scene,  and 
in  the  lyrical  interludes  she  still  remains  before 
her  gates,  looking  down  in  proud  misery  upon  the 
chanting  matrons,  unresponsive  to  their  sympathy, 
unmoved  by  their  prayers. 

Her  long  address  to  the  chorus,  when  she  now 
first  comes  forth,  will  alone  convince  any  thought- 
ful reader  that  our  poet  thoroughly  understands 
the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  women. 

FIRST  EPISODE. 

medea  (coming  from  her  house). 

Corinthian  dames,  1  have  issued  from  my  home, 
Lest  ye  be  wroth  with  me  ;  for  I  have  known 
Many  proud  mortals,  some  who  dwelt  apart, 
Some  publicly ;  but  they  who  lived  reserved 
Acquired  an  evil  name  and  slothful  soul. 

There  is  no  justice  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
Who  ere  they  well  have  learned  a  mortal's  heart 
Hate  him  at  sight,  though  suffering  no  wrong. 

A  stranger  must  cleave  closely  to  the  state,  — 
Nor  do  I  praise  a  townsman  crude  and  harsh 
Through  boorishness  to  fellow-citizens.  — 


TEE  MEDEA.  119 

This  trouble  unforeseen  befalling  me 
Has  crushed  my  soul :  and  since  the  grace  of  life 
Is  wholly  lost,  I  long  to  perish,  friends. 
For  he  who  was  my  all,  —  I  know  it  well,  — 
My  husband,  is  revealed  most  base  of  men. 

Of  all  created  things  endowed  with  soul 
And  sense,  we  women  are  the  wretchedest. 
Who,  first,  with  overplus  of  gold  must  buy 
Our  lord,  and  take  a  master  to  ourselves. 
This  is  an  evil  even  worse  than  ill. 
And  then  the  risk  is  great,  if  he  we  take 
Be  base  or  good.     No  honorable  release 
Have  women,  nor  may  we  disown  our  lord. 
Entered  on  novel  ways  and  customs,  each 
Must  needs  divine,  if  she  has  never  learned, 
How  it  is  best  to  live  with  him  she  weds. 

And  if,  while  we  are  toiling  faithfully, 
The  husband  is  not  chafing  at  the  yoke, 
Our  life  is  enviable  :  else,  death  is  best. 
A  man,  when  vexed  with  those  within  his  home, 
Goes  forth,  and  frees  his  heart  of  weariness, 
Betaking  him  to  comrades,  or  a  friend  : 
While  we  may  look  but  to  one  single  soul. 

They  say  we  live  at  home  a  life  secure 
From  danger,  while  they  struggle  with  the  spear. 
A  foolish  thought !     I  thrice  would  choose  to  stand 
Beside  my  shield,  ere  once  to  bear  a  child. 

But  the  same  words  suit  not  myself  and  thee. 
Thou  hast  a  city  and  a  father's  house, 
A  happy  life,  and  dear  companionship. 
I,  lonely,  homeless,  by  my  husband  scorned, 
From  a  barbarian  land  as  booty  led, 
Have  not  a  mother,  brother,  no,  nor  kin, 
With  whom  to  seek  a  haven  from  these  ills. 


120  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

This  much  I  wish  I  may  obtain  from  thee. 
If  any  means  or  plan  by  me  be  found 
To  avenge  these  wrongs  on  Jason,  on  the  girl 
He  has  wedded,  and  the  sire  who  gave  him  her, 
Speak  not !     A  woman  else  is  full  of  fear, 
Nor  dares  to  look  on  violence  and  arms  : 
But  if  it  chance  her  marriage-bed  is  wronged, 
There  is  no  soul  more  murderous  than  hers. 

It  is  important  to  notice  how  craftily  Medea  has 
aroused,  first,  the  sympathy  of  the  chorus  as  fel- 
low-women, and  then  their  pity,  before  making 
this  request.  She  has  been  too  shrewd  to  avow 
frankly  to  them  as  yet  her  intention  of  destroying 
King  Creon  and  his  daughter. 

The  promise  demanded  is  given  hastily  but  un- 
conditionally, and  then  the  immediate  entrance  of 
the  king  cuts  off  further  discussion.  This  pledge 
of  silence  must  be  held  to  account  for  the  failure 
of  the  matrons  to  interfere  in  behalf  of  the  royal 
family  at  a  later  crisis  of  the  drama ;  —  or  rather, 
it  is  merely  the  most  plausible  excuse  for  that 
inactivity,  which  is  really  dictated  by  the  tradi- 
tional proprieties  of  the  stage. 

CHORUS. 

I  promise.     Thou  art  right  to  punish  him, 
Medea,  nor  do  I  marvel  at  thy  grief. 
But  I  see  Creon,  ruler  of  the  land, 
Coming  with  tidings  of  some  new  decree. 

Creon  attended  by  his  suite  comes  prepared  for  a 
violent  scene. 


THE  MEDEA.  121 

CBEON  {entering  from  the  town). 
Thou,  sullen  woman,  wroth  against  thy  lord, 
Medea,  I  bid  thee  from  this  land  depart 
To  exile,  taking  both  thy  sons  with  thee. 
And  stay  not :  for  to  execute  my  words 
I  come  in  person,  and  return  not  home 
Ere  1  have  driven  thee  from  our  confines  forth. 

Medea's   reply  is  in   distressed  but  submissive 
tone. 

MEDEA. 

Alas  !  I  am  wholly  lost  in  wretchedness. 

Mine  enemies  are  crowding  every  sail. 

No  haven  from  destruction  can  be  reached.* 

Yet  in  this  evil  plight  I  still  will  ask, 

Why  dost  thou  send  me,  Creon,  from  the  land  ? 

CREON. 

I  fear  thee,  —  for  I  need  not  cloak  my  words, 
Lest  thou  mayst  do  my  child  some  fatal  hurt. 
And  many  things  contribute  to  my  dread. 
Cunning  art  thou,  and  skilled  in  many  harms, 
Grieved  for  thy  marriage-bed  and  husband  lost. 
I  hear  thou  threatenest,  so  't  is  told  to  me , 
To  punish  bride  and  bridegroom,  and  myself 
Who  gave  her.     I  will  guard  me  ere  I  suffer. 
'T  is  better  to  be  hateful  to  thee  now, 
Than,  being  mild,  hereafter  to  lament. 

At  this  crisis  of  her  fate,  Medea  tries  upon  Creon 
himself  all  that  cunning  skill  of  which  he  has  just 
avowed  his  fear. 

MEDEA. 

Ah  me ! 

Creon,  not  now  alone  but  oftentimes 
My  fame  has  harmed,  and  wrought  me  many  ills. 


122  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

A  man  of  sense  ought  not  to  educate 
His  children  so  that  they  are  all  too  wise  ; 
Since  not  alone  the  name  of  indolence, 
But  envy  too  from  neighbors  they  must  reap. 
For,  proffering  to  the  foolish  novel  truths, 
Thou  wilt  be  thought  not  shrewd,  but  lacking  sense. 
And  if  again  the  would-be  wondrous  sage 
Thou  dost  surpass,  thou  'rt  hated  in  the  state. 

In  such  a  fortune  have  I  too  a  share. 
Some  envy  me  my  wisdom,  others  are 
My  foemen.     Nor  am  I  exceeding  wise  ! 

Thou  too  hast  dread  of  suffering  some  strange  wrong. 
Fear  us  not,  Creon  !     I  have  no  such  power 
As  to  do  harm  to  men  of  royal  state. 

The  merciless  eyes  are  filled  with  tears.  With 
well-feigned  humility  she  clasps  his  hands  as  a 
helpless  suppliant.  She  even  denies  that  she  has 
any  ill  will  toward  Creon. 

How  hast  thou  wronged  me  ?     Thou  hast  given  thy 

child 
To  whom  thou  wouldst.     My  husband  I  detest ; 

(This  concession  is  evidently  forced  from  her 
by  the  consciousness  that  her  look  and  tones  still 
belie  her  pretense  of  good-will  to  all  mankind.) 

But  thou,  methinks,  in  this  hast  acted  well. 
And  now,  I  grudge  not  thy  prosperity. 
Wed  and  be  happy :  but  in  this  your  land 
Let  me  remain :  for  we,  though  suffering  wrong, 
Will  hold  our  peace,  by  mightier  overcome. 

Creon   is  clearly  bewildered   by  this   most  un- 


THE  MEDEA.  123 

expected  reception.     At  first  he  makes  firm  resist- 
ance to  her  entreaties : 

CREON. 

Thy  words  are  soft  to  hear,  but  in  thy  soul 
I  fear  me  lest  thou  plottest  harm  for  me. 
So  much  the  less  I  trust  thee  than  before. 
A  choleric  woman,  —  and  a  man  as  well,  — 
Is  safer  than  a  crafty  brooding  one. 
Nay,  get  thee  gone  at  once,  and  speak  no  word, 
For  this  is  fixed  ;  and  by  no  arts  shalt  thou 
Remain  among  us,  since  thou  art  my  foe. 

MEDEA. 

Nay,  by  thy  knees,  by  thy  new-wedded  child ! 

CREON. 

Thou  wastest  words.     Thou  canst  not  win  me  so. 

MEDEA. 

But  wilt  thou  scorn  my  prayers  and  drive  me  forth  ? 

CREON. 

Yes,  since  I  better  love  my  house  than  thee. 

MEDEA. 

0  fatherland,  how  I  recall  thee  now ! 

CREON. 

1  too,  except  my  offspring,  love  that  best. 

MEDEA. 

Ah  !     Passion  is  a  fearful  woe  to  men  ! 

CREON. 

That  is,  methinks,  even  as  the  chance  may  turn. 

MEDEA. 

Forget  not,  Zeus,  the  author  of  these  ills ! 

CREON. 

Hence,  babbler !  from  my  troubles  make  me  free ! 

MEDEA. 

'T  is  we  have  troubles,  and  no  lack  of  them. 


124  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

CREON. 

Soon  shalt  thou  be  by  servile  hands  thrust  forth. 

MEDEA. 

Not  so,  at  least,  but  Creon,  I  beseech  — 

CREON. 

Thou  wilt,  0  woman,  vex  us,  as  it  seems. 

MEDEA. 

We  will  depart.     It  was  not  that  I  craved. 

CREON. 

Why  dost  thou  struggle,  and  not  quit  the  land  ? 

MEDEA. 

Let  me  but  tarry  for  this  single  day, 
That  I  may  ponder  whither  we  shall  go, 
And  may  secure  resources  for  my  sons, 
Since  now  their  sire  cares  not  to  plan  for  them. 
Have  pity  on  them  !  thou  art  a  father  too  : 
It  is  but  natural  thou  shouldst  be  kind. 
I  care  not  for  myself,  if  we  must  flee, 
It  is  for  their  disaster  I  lament. 

—  And  the  king  falls  open-eyed  into  the  snare. 

CREON. 

By  no  means  is  my  spirit  tyrannous. 

Much  have  I  suffered  through  my  gentleness. 

And  now  I  see  my  error,  woman,  yet 

Thy  wish  is  granted.     But  be  thou  forewarned, 

If  the  god's  torch  to-morrow  see  thy  sons 

And  thee  within  the  confines  of  this  land, 

Thou  diest.     My  unchanging  word  is  said. 

[Exit. 

The  audience  at  once  realize  that  this  day  of  de- 
lay is  to  be  fatal  to  the  king  and  his  house.  As  he 
turns  to  depart  we  seem  to  see  the  glance  of  con- 


THE  MEDEA.  125 

tempt  and  hate  which  the  wily  sorceress  sends  after 
him.  She  now  at  once  casts  off  all  pretense  of 
submissiveness.  The  leader  of  the  chorus  addresses 
her  in  pitying'  words : 

CHORUS. 

O  woman  ill-starred  ! 
How  wretched  art  thou  for  thy  sorrows,  alas  ! 
Pray  where  wilt  thou  turn,  and  within  what  land 
Or  home  wilt  thou  seek  for  a  refuge  from  ills  ? 
For  into  impassable  billows  of  woe 
The  divinity  leads  thee,  Medea. 

But  Medea  replies  in  tones  of  rising  confidence. 

MEDEA. 

Ill  have  we  fared,  —  who  shall  deny  ?  —  in  all ; 

But  deem  not  yet  our  lot  so  desperate. 

There  still  are  contests  for  the  wedded  pair, 

And  toils  not  light  for  those  who  are  their  kin. 

Deemest  thou  I  had  ever  fawned  on  him, 

Had  I  not  aught  to  gain,  or  shrewd  device  ? 

Else  had  I  spoken  not,  nor  clasped  his  hands. 

But  he  is  gone  so  far  in  foolishness, 

That  when  he  might  have  overthrown  my  plans, 

Driving  me  from  the  land,  he  grants  this  day 

For  me  to  tarry,  wherein  of  my  foes 

Three  will  I  slay  :  the  girl,  her  sire,  my  spouse. 

And  having  many  ways  to  work  their  death, 

I  know  not  which  I  first  will  try,  my  friends  : 

Whether  to  set  the  bridal  home  on  fire, 

Or  plunge  a  keen-edged  falchion  through  their  hearts, 

Stealing  within  to  where  their  bed  is  laid. 

This,  only,  baffles  me :  if  I  be  caught 

Entering  their  home  to  carry  out  my  plans, 


x-v  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

I  perish  'mid  the  mockery  of  my  foes. 

The  quickest  way,  wherein  we  women  are 

Most  skilled,  is  best :  with  drugs  to  conquer  them. 

Medea's  plans  are  not  as  yet  fully  matured. 
Nevertheless,  in  the  imagination  of  the  terrible 
woman  the  murderous  deed  is  already  wrought. 

—  Now  are  they  dead  !  —  What  city  welcomes  me  ? 
What  host,  by  proffering  an  inviolate  land, 
Or  home  secure,  will  rescue  me  from  harm  ? 

There  is  none !     Yet  a  little  time  I  '11  wait, 
If  some  safe  stronghold  may  appear  for  us  ; 
Then  will  I  work  their  death  with  silent  craft. 
But  if  resistless  fate  shall  drive  me  forth, 
With  sword  in  hand,  though  at  the  point  of  death, 
Them  will  I  slay,  and  dare  the  boldest  deeds. 
For,  by  that  power  whom  most  I  venerate, 
And  chose  from  all  to  help  me  work  my  will, 
Hecate,  dwelling  in  mine  inmost  shrine, 
Not  one  of  them  shall  vex  me  with  his  bliss. 
Their  marriage  bitter  will  I  make,  and  sad ; 
Bitter  their  kinship,  and  my  banishment. 

Ah  well !     Spare  nothing  of  thy  cunning  craft, 
Medea,  of  thy  plans  and  artifice. 
Steal  on  to  mischief  !     Now  is  courage  tried  ! 
See  what  thou  sufferest :  thou  must  not  be  mocked, 
When  Jason  weds  the  race  of  Sisyphos. 
Thou  child  of  Helios'  illustrious  son, 
Full  wise  art  thou ;  and  women  ever  are 
Unprofitable  unto  noble  deeds, 
But  craftiest  contrivers  of  all  harms ! 

Here  the  Episode  closes. 


THE  MEDEA.  127 

The  last  lines  call  for  special  remark.  Our  poet 
excels,  as  all  concede,  in  the  delineation  of  women, 
good  and  bad.  His  plays  furnish  us  a  long  series  of 
noble  and  lovable  female  characters.  His  wicked 
women  are  almost  invariably  masterful,  at  least, 
and  usually  have  redeeming  virtues.  Yet  he  has 
always  been  called  a  woman-hater.  If  the  charge 
is  based  on  such  occasional  slurs  upon  the  sex  as 
this,  he  may  be  defended,  but  only  by  accusing 
him  of  a  fault  which  in  the  artist,  if  not  in  the 
man,  is  more  serious  still.  We  fear  that  a  fling 
like  the  present  one  is  little  more  than  the  unwor- 
thy employment  of  a  stock  jest  to  amuse  the  less 
thoughtful  portion  of  his  audience. 

There  is  upon  the  whole  very  little  cause  for 
quarrel  with  any  of  the  great  tragic  authors,  on  ac- 
count of  their  treatment  of  women.  The  Odyssey 
gives  what  is  probably  an  essentially  true  picture 
of  social  conditions  among  the  ancestors  of  the  his- 
toric Greeks.  Woman  is  there  the  free  and  inde- 
pendent companion  of  man,  almost  as  in  the  Boston 
of  to-day.  This  state  of  things  is,  on  the  whole, 
fairly  reflected  in  that  delineation  of  the  heroic 
foretime  which  was  attempted  on  the  tragic  stage  of 
the  fifth  century.  Indeed,  it  is  perhaps  more  in 
this  respect  than  in  any  other,  that  even  Euripi- 
des succeeded  in  detaching  his  historical  pictures 
from  the  actual  conditions  in  Athens  in  his  own 
time. 

Had  the  women  of  Periclean  Athens  occupied, 
or  been  worthy  to  occupy,  the  position  held  by  the 


128  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

matrons  and  maids  of  the  Homeric  llios,  Scheria, 
and  Sparta,  Athenian  freedom  might  have  lasted 
longer  :  certainly,  Attic  civilization  would  not  have 
rotted  at  the  core  as  it  did. 

But  the  beguiling  subject  leads  us  too  far  afield. 

FIRST  STASIMON". 

CHORUS. 

Upward  run  tlie  streams  of  holy  rivers  ; 

Justice  is  reversed,  and  everything. 
Treacherous  are  the  thoughts  of  men  :  immortals 

Watch  no  longer  over  plighted  faith. 
Fame  shall  bring  us  better  reputation  ; 
Honor  comes  upon  the  race  of  women, 

Shrill-voiced  infamy  no  more  is  ours. 

Now  shall  cease  the  strains  of  ancient  poems, 
That  have  sung  of  woman's  faithlessness. 

Not  to  tis  the  lyric  monarch  Phoibos 
Gave  the  toondrous  gift  of  minstrelsy  ; 

Else  to  mien  our  voices  had  made  answer. 

Seeing  length  of  days  affords  abundance 
Both  of  men  to  tell,  and  of  ourselves  ! 

Thou  hast  fled  thy  father  s  house  in  frenzy, 

Sailing  by  the  double  sea-girt  crags. 
On  thy  stranger's  soil  abidest 

Of  thy  marriage-bed  bereft. 
In  dishonor  art  thou  driven 

From  the  land  to  exile  forth. 

Reverence  for  an  oath  is  gone,  and  Honor, 
Leaving  mighty  Hellas,  flits  on  high. 


TIIE   MEDEA.  129 

(These  lines  may  well  have  had  a  double  mean- 
ing to  the  Athenian  people,  who  were  then  upon 
the  very  verge  of  the  Peloponnesian  war.) 

Thou  hast  not  a  father's  dwelling 

As  a  haven  from  thy  woes  ; 
And  another  mightier  princess 

Rises  to  oppose  thy  home. 

With  the  arrival  of  Jason,  the  second  Epi- 
sode now  begins.  He  enters  moralizing  gently  on 
the  harmfulness  of  uncontrolled  anger,  which  has 
brought  Medea  to  this  sad  pass,  despite  his  un- 
ceasing efforts  to  save  her  ! 

SECOND  EPISODE. 

JASON. 

Not  now  alone,  but  often,  have  I  seen 
That  furious  anger  is  a  grievous  curse. 
Thou  couldst  have  tarried  in  this  land  and  home, 
By  meekly  bearing  mightier  men's  decrees  : 
Thou  wilt  be  exiled  for  thy  foolish  words. 
—  Not  that  /  care  for  them  :  nay,  never  cease 
Proclaiming  Jason  as  the  worst  of  men  : 
But  for  what  thou  hast  said  against  the  monarchs, 
Account  thy  exile  a  most  happy  doom. 
I  still  have  striven  to  allay  the  wrath 
Of  angry  princes,  wishing  thee  to  stay. 
Thou  dost  not  cease  from  folly,  uttering  still 
Evil  of  rulers  :  hence  thy  banishment. 
Yet  even  so,  I  come  unwearying 
To  aid  my  dear  ones,  taking  thought  for  thee, 
That  ye  may  not  go  forth  in  poverty, 
Nor  lacking  aught ;  for  exile  brings  with  it 


130  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Full  many  ills  ;  and  though  thou  hatest  me, 
I  could  not  have  a  bitter  thought  for  thee. 

Medea  pours  forth  upon  her  dastardly  husband 
all  her  fury  and  contempt : 

MEDEA. 

Utterly  base  !  —  a  heavier  reproach 

For  thine  un manliness  I  cannot  utter,  — 

Thou  'rt  come  to  us  ?  thou  'rt  come,  detested  one  ? 

Not  boldness,  nor  audacity,  is  this, 

To  face  the  dear  ones  thou  hast  treated  ill, 

But,  —  greatest  of  all  evils  among  men,  — 

'T  is  shamelessness  !  —  Yet  thou  dost  well  to  come. 

I  in  reviling  thee  shall  make  more  light 

My  heart :  and,  hearing,  thou  wilt  suffer  pain. 

But  from  the  outset  shall  my  words  begin. 
I  saved  thy  life,  as  all  Hellenes  know 
Who  entered  into  Argo's  hull  with  thee, 
When  thou  wast  sent  to  guide  beneath  the  yoke 
Fire-breathing  bulls,  and  sow  the  field  of  death. 
The  dragon,  that  with  many-winding  coils, 
Slumbering  never,  watched  the  golden  fleece, 
I  slew,  and  held  for  thee  the  torch  of  life. 
My  father  I  deserted,  and  my  home, 
And  to  Iolcos  came  along  with  thee ; 
Zealous  was  I,  not  wise  !     And  Pelias, 
Through   his  own   daughters'  hands,  —  the   bitterest 

way 
To  death,  —  I  slew,  in  utter  recklessness. 

Thou,  treated  so  by  me,  most  base  of  men, 
Winning  a  newer  tie,  betrayest  me, 
Though  we  had  offspring.     If  no  child  were  thine, 
To  seek  this  wedlock  had  been  pardonable. 


THE  MEDEA.  131 

Gone  is  thy  plighted  faith !     Nor  can  I  learn 
If  thou  dost  deem  the  old  gods  rule  no  more, 
Or  that  new  laws  are  fixed  among  mankind : 
Since  well  thou  knowest  thy  perjury  to  me. 

Then  touching  upon  his  abject  appeal  to  her  in 
that  old  time  of  peril : 

Ah !  my  right  hand  which  thou  so  oft  hast  held  ! 
My  knees,  how  often  were  ye  clasped  in  vain 
By  an  unjust  man,  who  mocked  me  of  my  hopes ! 

Come !  I  will  speak  to  thee  as  friend  to  friend  ; 
—  To  gain  :  what  good  from  thee  ?  —  Yet  so  I  will, 
For  being  questioned  thou  'It  appear  more  base. 

What  refuge  may  I  seek  ?     My  father's  land 
And  house,  which  I  betrayed  to  come  with  thee  ? 
The  home  of  Pelias'  wretched  daughters  ?     They 
Whose  sire  I  slew  would  warmly  welcome  me  ! 
Ay,  so  it  is.     With  mine  own  kin  at  home 
Is  enmity.     Those  whom  it  ill  befits 
To  do  me  harm,  through  thee  are  foes  of  mine. 

Then  referring  bitterly  to  some  former  promise,  she 
adds : 

Envied  of  many  women  in  Greece  forsooth 
Thou  hast  made  me  in  return  !     A  wonderful 
And  faithful  spouse  have  I,  —  alas  !  —  in  thee, 
If  I  must  flee,  an  outcast  from  the  land, 
Alone  and  friendless,  with  my  sons  alone. 
A  fair  reproach  for  the  new-wedded  one, 
If  I,  who  saved  thy  life,  and  thine  own  sons, 
Wander  as  beggars ! 

Why,  0  Zeus,  hast  thou 
Bestowed  on  men  sure  tests  for  spurious  gold, 


132  TIIREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

But  on  the  human  body  is  no  stamp 
Whereby  to  know  the  base  among  mankind  ? 

CHORUS. 

Fierce  is  the  wrath  and  hard  to  be  assuaged, 
When  those  most  closely  bound  contend  in  strife  ! 

But  he  who  doubts  that  Jason,  even  in  this 
sorry  position,  will  make  at  least  an  ingenious  and 
fluent  defense,  little  knows  the  resources  of  Eurip- 
idean  sophistry. 

JASON. 

I  must,  it  seems,  be  nowise  weak  of  speech, 
But  like  the  skillful  steersman  of  the  ship, 
With  the  mere  edges  of  a  well-reefed  sail 
Scud,  woman,  from  thy  noisy  storm  of  words. 

And  I,  —  since  thou  dost  raise  so  high  my  debt 
To  thee,  —  think  Kypris  on  my  venturous  voyage 

(Kypris  is  our  poet's  favorite  name  for  Aphrodite. 
Her  son  Eros  —  the  Cupid  of  the  Romans  —  is  men- 
tioned presently.) 

Alone  of  gods  and  mortals  rescued  me. 

Thou  hast  a  cunning  wit :  for  me  to  tell 

Would  be  presumptuous,  how  with  his  sure  darta 

Eros  compelled  thee  to  preserve  my  life. 

—  Nor  will  I  weigh  this  all  too  curiously ; 

Whatever  aid  thou'st  rendered,  'tis  not  ill. 

Yet  in  my  safety  greater  good  hast  thou 

Received  than  given,  as  I  will  explain. 
And  first,  instead  of  a  barbarian  land 

Greece  is  thy  home.     Thou  knowest  righteousness, 

Enjoying  law  instead  of  violence. 

Perhaps  at  this  point  we  may  imagine  the  hero 


THE  MEDEA.  133 

saw  a  satirical  smile  play  over  the  face  of  the 
deserted  mother  of  his  children.  At  any  rate  he 
hastens  on  to  more  effective  arguments. 

And  all  the  Greeks  perceive  that  thou  art  wise, 
And  fame  is  thine.     On  earth's  remotest  bounds 
If  thou  didst  dwell,  there  were  no  word  of  thee. 
I  would  not  wish  for  gold  within  my  halls, 
Nor  sweeter  gift  of  song  than  Orpheus'  self, 
Unless  my  lot  might  be  illustrious  ! 

Thus  much  of  mine  own  efforts  have  I  said, 
Since  thou  hast  challenged  to  the  strife  of  words. 
And  since  thou  railest  at  my  royal  marriage, 
Herein  I,  first,  will  show  that  I  was  wise, 
Then,  virtuous,  last,  most  earnest  in  my  love 
To  thee  and  to  thy  sons.  —  Nay,  pray  be  calm  ! 

Medea,  in  her  impatience,  had  evidently  made  a 
threatening  gesture. 

When  I  came  hither  from  the  Iolkian  land, 

Dragging  with  me  full  many  desperate  griefs, 

What  luckier  treasure-trove  could  I  have  found 

In  exile,  than  to  wed  a  monarch's  child  ? 

Not  wearied,  as  thou  'rt  vexed  to  think,  of  thee, 

Nor  struck  with  longing  for  another  bride  ; 

Nor  for  much  offspring  did  I  wish  to  strive  ; 

The  sons  I  have  suffice  ;  I  am  content. 

This  most  I  sought,  that  we  might  live  at  ease, 

And  not  in  destitution :  for  I  knew 

How  every  friend  deserts  the  impoverished  man : 

And  that  I  worthily  might  rear  my  sons, 

And  might,  begetting  brothers  for  thy  boys, 

Bring  them  together  and  unite  my  race, 


134      THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

And  so  be  blest.     "What  lack  hast  thou  of  offspring  ? 

For  me  it  is  well  through  children  that  shall  be 

To  aid  the  living.     Have  I  counseled  ill  ? 

Thou  wouldst  not  say  so,  had  my  marriage  not 

Aggrieved  thee  ;  but  ye  women  go  so  far 

As  to  deem  all  is  well  if  wedlock  be 

Assured,  but  if  mischance  to  that  befall, 

The  best  and  noblest  actions  ye  account 

Most  hostile.     "Would  that  mortals  otherwhere 

Might  get  them  offspring,  and  there  were  no  women  •. 

For  then  there  were  no  ills  among  mankind ! 

This  plea,  however  ingenious,  is  so  utterly  per- 
verse and  shameless,  that  the  chorus,  instead  of 
their  usual  conciliatory  words,  interpose  with  de- 
cided disapproval. 

CHORUS. 

Jason,  thy  arguments  are  ordered  well ; 
Yet,  though  I  err,  to  me  thou  dost  appear 
Betraying  thy  wife,  to  do  an  evil  deed ! 

And  Medea  disdains  to  refute  him  in  detail. 

MEDEA. 

In  many  tilings  am  I  at  variance 
With  many.     A  man  unjust  but  skilled  in  speech 
I  hold  deserving  heaviest  punishment. 
Trusting  by  eloquence  to  screen  his  sins, 
He  dares  all  wrong  :  nor  is  he  all  too  wise ! 
Even  as  thou  :  to  me  show  not  thy  craft 
Nor  eloquence.     One  word  shall  lay  thee  low. 
"Wert  thou  not  base,  first  winning  my  consent 
Thou  shouldst  have  married  ;  not  unknown  to  us. 

Jason  retorts  cleverly  with  a  sneering  allusion  to 
her  temper. 


THE  MEDEA.  135 

JASON. 

Nobly  wouldst  thou  have  yielded  to  my  words, 
Had  I  announced  my  marriage  ;  thou  who  now 
Canst  not  even  yet  put  off  thy  heart's  great  wrath  ! 

MEDEA. 

Not  that  restrained  thee.     A  barbarian  wife 
For  thine  old  age  no  honor  seemed  to  bring. 

JASON. 

This  know  full  well,  not  for  the  woman's  sake 
I  wed  the  royal  bride  who  now  is  mine, 
But,  as  I  said  before,  I  wished  to  save 
Thy  life,  and  for  my  children  to  beget 
Brothers  of  princely  race,  to  guard  my  house. 

Medea  replies  in  striking  lines. 

MEDEA. 

A  prosperous  life  that  brings  jftit  pain,  and  bliss      /b 
That  gnaws  my  heart,  I  pray  may  not  be  mine  ! 

Antithesis  is  here  for  once  really  poetical.  The 
verses  seem  finer  by  far  than  the  famous  couplet 
of  Tennyson : 

"His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood, 
And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true." 

JASON. 

Thus  shouldst  thou  change  thy  prayer,  and  seem  more 

wise : 
May  blessings  not  appear  as  griefs  to  thee, 
Nor  in  good  fortune  deem  thyself  ill-starred. 

MEDEA. 

Be  insolent !  thou  hast  an  abiding-place ; 
But  I  shall  from  the  land  depart,  alone. 

JASON. 

Thyself  hast  chosen  so.     Blame  no  man  else. 


136      THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

MEDEA. 

How,  pray  ?     By  wedding  and  betraying  thee  ? 

JASON. 

By  launching  impious  curses  at  the  kings. 

MEDSA. 

Against  thy  house  as  well  my  curse  is  sped  ! 

JASON. 

Further  than  this  I  will  not  strive  with  thee. 
But  if  for  thine  own  exile  or  thy  sons 
Thou  wilt  accept  assistance  from  my  means, 
Speak.  I  am  ready  with  free  hand  to  give, 
And  tokens  send  to  friends  who  will  treat  thee  well. 
Thou  'rt  foolish,  woman,  if  thou  dost  refuse, 
And  it  will  profit  thee  to  cease  from  wrath. 

MEDEA. 

We  never  would  make  use  of  friends  of  thine, 
Nor  aught  accept !     Proffer  it  not  to  us ! 
Gifts  of  an  evil  man  no  blessing  bring. 

The  line  reminds  us  of  Ophelia's  words : 

"  To  the  noble  mind 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor  when  givers  prove  unkind." 

JASON. 

Why  then,  I  call  the  gods  for  witnesses, 

I  fain  would  aid  in  all  thy  sons  and  thee  ; 

Kindness  displeases  thee.     In  willfulness 

Thou  spurnest  friends.     The  more  shall  be  thy  grief. 

Medea  dismisses  him  with  a  taunt  and  a  threat. 

MEDEA. 

Begone  !     Desire  for  yon  new-wedded  girl 
Seizes  thee,  if  thou  lingei'est  forth  from  home. 
Ay,  wed  her !     Yet  perchance,  —  if  the  god  wills, — 
Thy  wedlock  thou  'It  be  eager  to  disown. 


TUE  MEDEA.  137 

Upon  Jason's  departure  the  matrons  sing  the 
second  Stasimon.  It  is  an  earnest  prayer  for  se- 
curity from  excessive  and  sinful  passion, 

SECOND  STASIMON. 

Passions  that  too  mightily  assail  us 
Bring  not  virtue  nor  repute  to  men : 

But  if  Kypris  come  in  moderation, 
Never  god  so  gracious  is  as  she. 

Smite  me  not,  0  queen,  ivith  dart  unerring, 
Dipt  in  longing,  from  thy  golden  bow. 

Wisdom,  fairest  gift  of  gods,  befriend  me  I 
Nor  may  cruel  Kypris  on  me  bring 

Stubborn  anger  and  insatiate  quarrels, 
Turning  my  mad  thoughts  to  other  loves. 

Holding  peaceful  nuptial-rites  in  honor, 
Keenly  may  she  guard  the  marriage-bed. 

Oh  my  native-land,  my  home  ! 
May  I  not  an  exile  be, 
Leading  a  most  helpless  life, 
Pitiable  for  its  woes  ! 
Erst  by  death  may  I  be  quelled, 
Should  I  live  to  see  the  day  ; 

Since  there  is  no  other  ivorse  disaster 

Than  to  be  of  fatherland  bereft. 

We  have  seen :  —  there  is  no  need 
We  of  others  learn  the  tale. 
Neither  land  nor  kinsman  felt 
Pity  for  thy  bitterest  grief. 


138  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Wretched  may  he  die  who  thus 
Fails  to  honor  closest  ties. 

So  unbarring  his  acknowledged  spirit  ; 

Nevermore  could  he  be  friend  of  mine  ! 

Medea  still  remains  upon  the  stage,  and  the 
third  Episode  consists  of  an  interview  between  her 
and  the  Athenian  King  Aigeus,  father  of  Theseus. 
His  arrival  at  this  moment  is  avowedly  an  acci- 
dent, and  his  rather  forced  introduction  into  the 
plot  has  been  often  criticised.  It  is  quite  true 
that  the  successive  incidents  should  arise  naturally, 
as  it  were  inevitably,  out  of  one  another.  To  the 
audience,  however,  there  was  no  shock  of  surprise, 
as  Medea's  plans  evidently  required  that  some 
place  of  refuge  should  open  to  her.  Moreover,  the 
Athenian  auditors  surely  knew  that  the  traditional 
story  made  Medea  escape  to  Attica,  and  the  intro- 
duction of  a  national  hero  in  so  honorable  a  char- 
acter woidd  be  likely  to  gratify  their  pride. 

THIRD  EPISODE. 
aigeus  (entering). 
All  hail,  Medea,  —  since  no  man  doth  know 
A  sweeter  greeting  for  a  friend  than  this. 

MEDEA. 

Hail  to  thee  also,  wise  Pandion's  son, 

Aigeus.     Whence  journeyest  thou  unto  this  land  ? 

AIGEUS. 

From  Phoibos'  ancient  oracle  I  come. 

MEDEA. 

Why  didst  thou  seek  the  earth's  prophetic  centre  ? 


THE  MEDEA.  139 

AIGEUS. 

To  learn  how  offspring  might  be  born  to  me. 

MEDEA. 

What !  childless  hast  thou  spent  thy  life  till  now  ? 

AIGEUS. 

Ay,  childless,  by  some  god's  behest,  are  we. 

MEDEA. 

Unto  this  land  what  need  has  guided  thee  ? 

It  is  evident  that  the  Athenian  king,  returning 
home  from  Delphi,  need  not  pass  through  Corinth. 

AIGEUS. 

A  certain  Pittheus  is  Troizenia's  king  — 

In  order  to  keep  the  form  of  dialogue  in  single 
lines,  Medea  must  complete  the  sentence. 

MEDEA. 

Devoutest,  as  men  say,  of  Pelops'  sons. 

AIGEUS. 

With  him  I  wish  to  share  the  oracle. 

MEDEA. 

The  man  is  wise,  and  practiced  in  this  art. 

AIGEUS. 

And  dearest  unto  me  of  all  allies. 

MEDEA. 

—  Be  fortunate,  and  win  what  thou  dost  crave ! 

Her  mournful  tone  strikes  the  king,  who  has  until 
now  been  absorbed  in  his  own  anxiety.  Looking 
more  attentively  at  Medea,  he  inquires : 

AIGEUS. 

Why  is  thine  eye  and  visage  wasted  thus  ? 

MEDEA. 

Aigeus,  my  lord  is  of  all  men  the  worst ! 


140  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

The  story  of  Jason's  misdeeds  having  been  already- 
related  earlier  in  the  play,  it  is  repeated  here  in 
the  briefest  and  most  epigrammatic  fashion. 

AIGEUS. 

What  sayst  thou  ?     Plainly  tell  thy  griefs  to  me. 

MEDEA. 

Jason  has  wronged  me,  suffering  naught  from  me. 

AIGEUS. 

Doing  —  what,  pray  ?     More  clearly  explain  to  me. 

MEDEA. 

He  has  wed  another  woman  in  my  stead. 

AIGEUS. 

Has  he  then  really  dared  this  shameless  deed  ? 

MEDEA. 

Ay !     We  are  unhonored  who  before  were  dear. 

AIGEUS. 

From  passion,  or  through  hatred  of  thyself  ? 

MEDEA. 

A  mighty  passion  !     Faithlessness  in  love. 

AIGEUS. 

Well  lost  is  he,  being,  as  thou  sayst,  so  base. 

MEDEA. 

The  tyrants'  kinship  he  desired  to  win. 

AIGEUS. 

Who  grants  him  this  ?     Complete  for  me  the  tale. 

MEDEA. 

Creon,  who  governs  this  Corinthian  land. 

AIGEUS. 

Woman,  thy  grief  is  pardonable  indeed  ! 

MEDEA. 

I  am  lost !  —  And  then  too,  I  am  banished  hence. 

AIGEUS. 

By  whom  ?     Another  grief  and  new  is  this. 


THE  MEDEA.  141 

MEDEA. 

Creon  from  Corinth  drives  me  exiled  forth. 

aigeus. 
Jason  permits  it  ?     This  too  I  condemn. 

MEDEA. 

Nay,  not  in  words ;  but  he  '11  be  reconciled ! 

Then  suddenly  giving  way  to  her  feelings,  and  in 
more  excited  tones  : 

But  by  thy  beard  I  do  entreat  of  thee, 

And  at  thy  knees  am  I  a  suppliant, 

Pity  me  !     Pity  me  the  wretched  one  ; 

Do  not  look  on  while  I  go  forth  alone, 

But  in  thy  realm  receive  me,  and  thy  halls. 

So  may  thy  wish  for  children  be  fulfilled 

At  the  gods'  hands,  and  happy  mayst  thou  die. 

Thou  dost  not  know  what  boon  thou  here  hast  found. 

Thy  childlessness  through  me  shall  have  an  end  ; 

Thou  shalt  beget  thee  sons.     Such  drugs  I  know! 

Aigeus,  after  a  moment's  hesitation  responds  : 

AIGEUS. 

For  many  reasons,  woman,  I  desire 
To  do  this  grace  for  thee.     First,  for  the  gods, 
Then  for  the  children  whom  thou  dost  announce : 
Since  I,  thou  knowest,  have  wholly  failed  therein. 
But  thus  it  stands.     If  thou  dost  reach  my  realm, 
Then  will  I  strive  to  greet  thee  righteously : 
But  from  this  land  thou  must  thyself  depart. 
I  would  be  blameless  even  in  strangers'  eyes. 

MEDEA. 

So  shall  it  be.     But  if  some  pledge  thereof 
Were  mine,  then  all  were  well  'twixt  thee  and  me. 


142  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

AIGEUS. 

Dost  thou  not  trust  me  ?     Or  what  troubles  thee  ? 
Medea's  reply  is  a  model  of  conciliatory  persistence. 

MEDEA. 

I  trust  thee.     But  the  house  of  Pelias, 

And  Creon,  are  my  foes.     Yet,  bound  by  oaths, 

Thou  wilt  not  let  them  hale  me  from  thy  land. 

If  thou  but  promisest,  by  gods  unsworn, 

Thou  mightst  befriend  them,  and  their  herald's  words 

Perchance  might  win  thee :  for  my  cause  is  weak, 

Prosperity  and  royal  homes  are  theirs. 

AIGEUS. 

There  is  much  forethought,  woman,  in  thy  words. 
But  if  thou  wish  it,  this  will  I  accord. 
For  this  is  most  secure  for  me  as  well, 
If  I  have  some  excuse  to  give  thy  foes, 
And  it  befits  thy  interest.     Name  the  gods. 

MEDEA. 

Swear  by  the  plain  of  Earth,  and  Helios, 
My  father's  sire,  and  all  the  race  of  gods. 

AIGEUS. 

—  To  do  or  leave  undone  what  action  ?     Speak. 

MEDEA. 

Never  thyself  to  cast  me  forth,  and  if 
A  foe  of  mine  would  lead  me,  in  thy  life 
Never  of  thy  free  will  to  suffer  it. 

AIGEUS. 

I  swear  by  Earth,  by  Helios'  holy  power, 
And  all  the  gods,  to  do  what  thou  hast  said. 

MEDEA. 

Enough.     If  perjured,  mayst  thou  suffer:  — what? 

AIGEUS. 

Whatever  upon  impious  men  befalls. 


THE  MEDEA.  143 

Aigens  now  turns  to  depart  homeward,  and  as 
Medea  Lids  him  farewell  there  is  a  ring  of  com- 
plete certainty  and  triumph  in  her  voice. 

MEDEA. 

Good  speed  upon  thy  journey.     All  is  well. 
Thy  town  I  soon  shall  seek,  if  I  but  do 
What  I  intend,  and  prosper  as  I  would. 

Aigeus  now  passes  off  to  the  left,  showing  that  he 
goes  to  another  land ;  and  the  chorus  speeds  the 
parting  guest. 

CHORUS. 

May  the  son  of  Maia,  the  guide  divine, 

Escort  thee  homeward,  and  mayst  thou  win 

That  boon  thou  hast  sought  for  and  greatly  desired  ; 

For  an  upright  man, 
O  Aigeus,  to  me  thou  appearest. 

Medea  is  now  quite  prepared,  and  details  triumph- 
antly to  the  chorus  the  plans  which  she  had  not 
mentioned  in  the  hearing  of  the  humane  Athenian 
monarch. 

MEDEA. 

O  Zeus,  Zeus'  daughter  Justice,  and  thou  light 
Of  Helios  !     Now  victorious  o'er  my  foes, 
O  friends,  we  shall  be,  ay,  are  on  the  road  ! 
Now  have  I  hope  to  avenge  me  on  my  foes  ; 
For  yonder  man,  when  most  we  were  distressed, 
Appeared,  to  be  the  haven  of  my  plans  ; 
And  we  will  bind  to  him  our  cables  fast, 
Faring  to  Pallas'  town  and  citadel. 

Now  all  my  plans  will  I  reveal  to  thee, 
But  yet  expect  not  words  to  give  thee  joy. 

One  of  my  servants  I  will  send  to  beg 


144  TIIREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Of  Jason  that  he  to  my  presence  come. 
And  I  will  speak  soft  words,  when  he  arrives, 
Saying  his  doings  please  me,  and  are  well. 
But  I  will  beg  my  children  may  remain  : 
Not  that  I  mean  to  leave  on  hostile  soil 
My  sons,  to  be  insulted  by  my  foes  : 
But  that  by  craft  the  princess  I  may  slay. 
For  I  will  send  the  boys  with  gifts  in  hand 
To  give  the  bride,  that  they  be  not  cast  forth  : 
A  delicate  robe,  and  crown  of  beaten  gold. 
If  she  accepts  and  dons  these  ornaments, 
She  perishes,  and  whoso  touches  her ; 
"With  drugs  so  strong  will  I  anoint  the  gifts. 
But  I  will  leave  that  tale  no  further  told. 
Even  now  I  groan  when  I  recall  what  deed 
Must  next  be  done  :  for  I  will  slay  my  sons, 
My  own  !  and  no  one  shall  deliver  them. 
Thus  utterly  destroying  Jason's  race, 
Fleeing  my  murdered  sons  will  I  go  forth, 
When  I  have  dared  that  most  unholy  deed : 
For  scoffs  of  foes  I  cannot  bear,  dear  friends. 

Ah  well !  what  profits  it  to  live  ?     No  land 
Nor  home  have  I,  nor  refuge  in  distress. 
Then  was  my  error,  when  I  did  forsake 
My  home  ancestral,  by  that  Greek  beguiled 
Who,  with  the  god's  aid,  shall  atone  to  me. 
For  never  shall  he  see  his  sons  by  me 
Alive  hereafter,  nor  by  this  new  bride 
Shall  he  have  offspring,  since  the  wretched  one 
Must  by  my  drugs  be  wretchedly  destroyed. 
Let  no  man  think  me  indolent  or  weak 
Or  helpless,  but  of  nature  quite  diverse  : 


THE  MEDEA.  145 

Fierce  to  my  foes,  and  gentle  unto  friends,  — 
For  such  men  win  most  glory  in  their  life. 

This  was  the  very  chord  which  Jason  touched  so 
confidently.  The  leader  of  the  chorus  protests 
with  unusual  courage. 

CHORUS. 

Since  thou  confidest  thine  intent  to  us, 
For  love  of  thee  and  by  the  laws  of  men 
I  do  forbid  it,  and  arrest  thy  hand. 

MEDEA. 

It  must  be  !     Yet  't  is  pardonable  for  thee 

To  say  this,  who  hast  not  like  me  been  wronged. 

It  will  be  noticed  how  gently  Medea  receives 
the  criticisms  of  the  minor  characters  upon  her  ac- 
tions. All  her  fierceness  is  absorbed  in  her  plans 
for  vengeance. 

CHORUS. 

But,  woman,  wilt  thou  dare  to  slay  thy  sons  ? 

MEDEA. 

Since  so  my  lord  may  be  most  deeply  hurt ! 

CHORUS. 

But  thou  wouldst  be  of  women  wretchedest ! 

MEDEA. 

Enough.     All  intercession  is  in  vain. 

And  thus  cutting  off  farther  discussion,  Medea 
turns  to  one  of  her  attendants,  possibly  the  trusty 
nurse  ;  for  the  part  might  here  be  played  by  a 
mute,  wearing  the  same  mask  used  by  the  actor  in 
the  earlier  scene. 

But  prithee  go  and  fetch  me  Jason  here, 
Since  we  employ  thee  in  all  secrecies. 


146  THREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

But  speak  no  word  of  mine  intent,  if  thou 
Art  faithful  to  thy  lords,  and  woman  born. 

The  third  Stasimon  follows,  wherein  the  praise 
of  Athenian  virtue  and  hospitality  glides  naturally 
into  a  prayer  to  Medea,  not  to  commit  a  deed  which 
must  close  even  those  friendly  gates  against  her. 

The  opening  stanza  is  an  especially  famous  eulogy 
of  Athens. 

THIRD  STASIMON. 

Children  of  Erechtheus,  blest  of  old, 

Sons  of  holy  gods, 
Gulling  fruits  of  most  illustrious  ivisdom 

From  unhurried  land, 
Gently  moving  through  the  shining  ether, 

Where,  as  runs  the  tale, 
Once  the  sacred  nine  Pierian  Muses 

Were  by  fair  Harmon  ia  borne. 

This  curious  bit  of  mythology  is  found  in  no 
other  author.  It  is  perhaps  a  conscious  invention 
of  Euripides,  and  Harmonia  seems  a  comprehen- 
sive symbol  of  all  the  happy  circumstances  which 
had  combined  to  make  Athens  —  not  indeed  in  Me- 
dea's time,  but  in  the  poet's  own  century  —  the  fa- 
vorite abode  of  all  the  Muses  and  their  devotees. 
If  so,  this  is  as  noble  a  phrase  as  was  ever  shaped 
to  glorify  a  fatherland. 

From  Kejyhissos'  lovely-flowing  stream, 

So  the  tale  is  told, 
Kypris  dipt,  and  wafted  gentle  breezes 

Over  all  the  land. 


THE  MEDEA.  147 

On  her  hair  a  fragrant  ivreath  of  roses 

Evermore  she  sets, 
Sends  them  loves  with  wisdom  close-united, 

Aiding  every  virtuous  deed. 

How,  then,  shall  the  town  of  holy  rivers, 

Or  the  land  that  safely  harbors  friends, 
Hold  within  its  bounds  the  child-destroyer, 

So  polluted  among  other  men  ? 
Think  upon  the  blow  that  smites  thy  children  ! 

Think  what  blood  it  is  that  thou  wilt  shed! 
Every  ivay  we  at  thy  knees  entreat  thee 

Do  not  be  the  murderess  of  thy  sons  I 

The  words  bring  clearly  before  us  the  imploring 
eyes  and  hands  of  the  chorus,  the  haughty  averted 
face  and  brooding  gaze  of  the  merciless  barbarian 
queen. 

Whence  shall  come  to  thee  this  rash  decision, 

Seizing  on  thy  mind  and  hand  and  heart, 
Leading  to  this  fearful  deed  of  daring  ? 

How,  when  on  thine  offspring  rest  thine  eyes, 
Shalt  thou  leave  unwept  their  lot  of  murder  ? 

Surely,  when  thy  children  suppliant  kneel, 
Thou  canst  not  thus  stain  thy  hand  to  crimson, 

Holding  to  thy  merciless  resolve  ! 


FOURTH  EPISODE. 

jason  (entering). 
I  come  at  call ;  for  though  a  foe  to  me, 
Thou  shalt  not  miss  of  this,  but  I  will  hear 
What  new  strange  thing,  oh  woman,  thou  dost  seek. 


148  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

Medea  responds  with  a  humility  which  seems 
overdrawn.  Yet  Jason  proves  even  more  plastic 
in  her  hands  than  Creon  and  Aigeus  have  been  be- 
fore him. 

MEDEA. 

Jason,  I  crave  thy  pardon  for  my  words. 

'T  is  fit  that  thou  shouldst  bear  my  anger,  since 

Much  loving  service  have  we  done  each  other. 

But  I  to  parley  with  myself  have  come, 

Rating  myself :  "  Stubborn  one,  why  am  I 

So  mad,  and  wroth  at  those  who  seek  my  good  ? 

With  the  land's  rulers  am  I  now  at  strife, 

And  with  my  lord,  who  does  what  aids  us  most, 

Wedding  a  princess,  and  begetting  sons, 

Brothers  to  mine.     Shall  I  not  cease  from  wrath  ? 

What  can  possess  me,  when  the  gods  are  kind  ? 

Have  I  not  sons,  and  am  I  not  aware 

That  we  are  exiled,  and  have  dearth  of  friends  ?  " 

Thinking  of  this,  I  saw  that  I  had  been 
Most  foolish,  and  enraged  without  a  cause. 
Now,  then,  I  praise  thee,  and  I  hold  thee  wise, 
Who  won  this  kinship  for  us  ;  mad  was  I, 
Who  should  have  helped  thee  accomplish  thine  intent, 
Aiding  and  sharing  in  thy  marriage-rites, 
Rejoicing  to  attend  upon  thy  bride. 
But  we  are  what  we  are,  I  say  not  evil, 
But  women.     Thou  didst  well  retorting  not, 
Nor  answering  with  folly  foolish  words. 
I  speak  thee  fair,  and  say  that  then  I  was 
Unwise,  but  better  is  my  present  mind. 

Children  !  O  children  !  hither  !  leave  the  house, 
Come  forth  to  greet  and  hail  with  me  your  father. 


THE  MEDEA.  149 

Be  reconciled,  out  of  our  former  strife 
To  loving-kindness,  as  your  mother  is. 
We  are  at  peace,  and  wrath  is  passed  away ; 
Clasp  ye  his  hand. 

But  as  she  leans  over  the  boys  to  clasp  their  hands 
in  their  father's,  her  self  -  control  gives  way  alto- 
gether, and  amid  wild  sobs  she  utters  words  which 
seem  clearly  to  betray,  even  to  credulous  Jason,  her 
secret  determination  to  murder  the  children. 

—  Ah  me  !   my  misery  ! 
When  I  bethink  me  of  what  yet  is  hid  ! 

The  allusion  is  of  course  to  her  own  murderous 
plans.  Instantly,  however,  she  realizes  that  both  her 
words  and  her  tears  must  be  plausibly  explained  : 
and  with  hardly  a  pause  she  continues  in  such  a 
strain  that  the  words  just  uttered  now  appear  to 
have  applied  merely  to  the  uncertainty  of  all  mortal 
events. 

Will  ye  live  long,  my  children,  to  extend 
Your  loving  arms  ?     Oh,  wretched  that  I  am, 
How  prone  am  I  to  tears,  and  full  of  dread ! 
Ending  at  last  my  quarrel  with  your  father, 
Thus  have  I  filled  mine  eyes  with  tender  tears. 

And  she  fearlessly  raises  her  tear-stained  face,  as- 
sured that  the  genuine  marks  of  grief  will  now  only 
disarm  suspicion,  instead  of  exciting  it.  "  A  fear- 
ful woman,"  indeed,  as  her  old  nurse  had  said ! 

CHORUS. 

From  mine  eye  too  a  swelling  tear  did  start. 
No  greater  may  the  present  evil  grow ! 


150  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

This  is  really  an  appeal  to  Medea  to  give  up  her 
cruel  determination,  but  it  is  veiled  from  Jason 
under  the  form  of  a  prayer.  Jason's  reply  shows 
that  he  is  wholly  unsuspicious. 

JASON. 

These  words  I  praise,  and  those  I  will  not  blame. 

For  womankind  'tis  natural  to  be  wroth 

If  their  lord  wed  another  unbeknown. 

But  for  the  better  now  thy  heart  is  changed, 

And  finally  at  least  the  wiser  part 

Is  thine.     Tbis  act  bespeaks  thee  sensible. 

With  no  further  concern  for  his  cast-off  wife,  he 
proceeds : 

For  you,  my  sons,  your  sire,  not  foolishly, 

Has  taken,  with  the  god's  aid,  earnest  thought. 

I  trust  that  ye  in  this  Corinthian  land 

Shall  be  the  foremost,  —  with  my  other  sons. 

Grow,  ye.     The  rest  your  sire  shall  bring  to  pass, 

With  whoso  of  the  gods  is  favorable. 

And  may  I  see  you  reach  the  goal  of  youth 

In  vigorous  strength,  more  mighty  than  my  foes. 

.  .  .  But  thou  !     Why  dost  thou   stain  with  gushing 

tears 
Thine  eyeballs,  turning  thy  white  cheek  aside, 
And  joyless  dost  receive  these  words  from  me  ? 

MEDEA. 

'T  is  nothing.     Of  the  children  were  my  thoughts. 

JASON. 

Be  cheered,  for  I  will  order  this  aright. 

MEDEA. 

I  will,  nor  do  I  doubt  thy  words  ;  but  yet 
Woman  is  feminine,  and  apt  to  tears. 


THE  MEDEA.  151 

JASON. 

Why  dost  thou  mourn  for  them,  unhappy  one  ? 

MEDEA. 

I  bore  them.     When  thou  pray'dst  for  them  to  live, 
The  piteous  thought  came,  if  this  should  not  be. 

Now  regaining  complete  control  of  herself,  she  con- 
tinues : 

But  as  to  that  whereof  thou  'rt  come  to  speak, 
A  part  is  said,  the  rest  I  will  make  known. 
Since  't  is  the  tyrants'  wish  to  send  me  forth, 
—  And  this  is  best  for  me,  I  know  full  well, 
Not  to  dwell  near  the  rulers  of  the  land, 
And  thee,  since  to  their  race  I  seem  a  foe,  — 
I  from  this  realm  in  exile  will  depart, 
But,  that  thy  sons  may  at  thy  hand  be  reared, 
Beg  Creon  not  to  drive  them  from  his  soil. 

JASON. 

I  doubt  if  I  persuade  him,  but  must  try. 

MEDEA. 

And  do  thou  bid  thy  wife  beseech  her  sire 
That  they  may  not  be  sent  to  banishment. 

JASON. 

Surely,  and  her  at  least  methinks  1 11  win. 

MEDEA. 

Ay,  if  she  be  as  other  women  are. 

And  I  will  undertake  this  task  with  thee ; 

For  I  will  send  her  gifts,  the  loveliest 

By  far,  I  know,  that  are  among  mankind. 

My  sons  shall  bear  them.     Some  one  of  my  slaves 

Shall  fetch  the  adornments  hither  in  all  haste. 

Then,  while  the  servant  is  absent : 


152  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Ten  thousand  times,  not  once,  shall  she  rejoice, 
Who  gains  the  best  of  men  to  be  her  spouse, 
And  wins  the  adornment  Helios  gave  of  old, 
My  father's  father,  to  his  progeny. 

The  gifts  have  now  been  brought  out. 

Clasp  ye  and  bear  these  bridal  gifts,  my  sons, 
And  give  them  to  the  blessed  royal  bride. 
Gifts  not  to  be  disdained  shall  she  receive ! 

Jason's  reply  contains  the  most  manly  words  we 
hear  him  utter. 

JASON. 

Why,  rash  one,  dost  thou  strip  thy  hands  of  these  ? 
Dost  think  the  royal  house  hath  lack  of  robes, 
Or  yet  of  gold  ?     Save  this,  and  give  it  not. 
For  if  my  wife  have  any  care  for  me, 
That  shall  outweigh  thy  treasures,  well  I  know. 

MEDEA. 

Not  so.     Gifts  even  win,  't  is  said,  the  gods. 
Mightier  than  countless  words  with  men  is  gold. 
Fortune  is  hers,  the  god  now  makes  her  strong  ; 
Youth  lords  us  :  and  my  children's  banishment 
With  life,  not  gold  alone,  would  I  redeem. 

It  is  not  with  her  own  life,  but  with  theirs,  that 
the  boys'  escape  from  exile  shall  be  purchased. 
The  chorus  and  the  audience  understand  her :  but 
Jason  does  not.  Such  bits  of  "  tragic  irony  "  are 
too  frequent  to  need  remark. 

But  children,  entering  yon  sumptuous  home, 
Implore  your  father's  youthful  wife,  my  queen, 
Begging  her  that  ye  be  not  driven  forth. 
Give  her  the  adornments.     This  is  needful  most, 


THE  MEDEA.  153 

That  she  receive  in  her  own  hand  the  gifts. 
Make  haste,  and  that  success  she  fain  would  win 
Announce  unto  your  mother,  faring  well. 

At  this  point  the  boys,  accompanied  by  the  peda- 
gogue, pass  out  bearing  the  gifts.  Jason  had  prob- 
ably already  departed,  and  Medea  is  again  alone, 
but  for  the  chorus.  The  first  at  least  of  the  train 
of  woes  is  now  inevitable  ;  and  the  Stasimon  is  a 
lament  for  the  innocent  and  guilty  involved  in 
common  ruin.  One  stanza  is  devoted  successively 
to  the  children,  the  young  bride,  Jason,  and  Me- 
dea. 

FOURTH   STASIMON. 

Now  the  hope  is  mine  no  longer 

To  preserve  the  children's  life. 

Toward  their  doom  e'en  now  they  march  f 
By  the  hapless  bride  accepted 

Shall  the  fatal  coronet  be. 
Death  she  '11  set  upon  her  tresses, 

For  adornment,  ivith  her  hands. 

Their  ambrosial  grace  and  splendor 

Will  beguile  her  to  put  on 

Robe  and  crown  of  beaten  gold. 
With  the  dead  shall  be  her  bridal ! 

Into  such  a  snare  she  falls, 
Wretched  one,  and  doom  most  fatal : 

Ruin  she  may  not  escape. 

Thee  too,  unhappy  one,  ivretched  in  marriage,  the  kins- 
man of  princes, 
Though  thou  perceivest  it  not, 


154  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

Terrible  death  to  thy  wife  dost  bring,  to  thy  children 
destruction. 
Little  thou  knoivest  thy  lot ! 

Thy  grief  too  I  bemoan,  0  unblest  mother  of  children, 

Whom  thou  intendest  to  slay, 
Since   thy  husband   unlawfully  now   thy  bed  has   de- 
serted, 
And  with  another  is  wed  ! 

The  fifth  Episode  is  opened  by  the  return  of 
the  children,  with  their  pedagogue,  from  the  royal 
palace.  The  old  slave  announces  the  success  of 
their  mission,  and  is  greatly  bewildered  at  the  ex- 
pressions of  grief,  instead  of  pleasure,  with  which 
his  tidings  are  received. 


FIFTH  EPISODE. 

PEDAGOGUE. 

Lady,  thy  sons  from  exile  are  absolved  ; 
The  princess  gladly  took  the  gifts  in  hand. 
Peace  is  assured  thy  offspring,  as  for  her. 

Well ! 
Why  dost  thou  stand  confounded  in  good  fortune  ? 

MEDEA. 

Alas! 

PEDAGOGUE. 

This  harmonizes  not  with  my  report ! 

MEDEA. 

Ah  me ! 

PEDAGOGUE. 

Have  I  some  evil  tidings  brought 
Unknowing,  missing  thanks  for  happy  news  ? 


THE  MEDEA.  15b 

With  more  self-command  than  Shakespeare's 
Cleopatra,  who  beats  the  bringer  of  evil  tidings, 
Medea  replies : 

MEDEA. 

Thy  news  is  but  thy  news.     I  blame  not  thee  ! 

PEDAGOGUE. 

Why,  pray,  thy  downcast  eye  and  flood  of  tears  ? 

MEDEA. 

It  needs  must  be,  old  man  ;  for  this  the  gods 
And  I  myself  in  madness  have  contrived. 

PEDAGOGUE. 

Be  cheered.     Thy  children  yet  shall  call  thee  home. 

MEDEA. 

I  shall,  alas !  ere  that  lead  others  home. 

PEDAGOGUE. 

Not  thou  alone  of  children  art  bereft. 
A  mortal  must  with  patience  bear  his  lot. 

MEDEA. 

This  will  I  do.     But  pass  within  the  house. 
Attend  upon  the  children's  daily  needs. 

And  without  receiving  any  explanation  of  his 
mistress'  tears,  the  pedagogue  passes  within.  Me- 
dea, left  alone  with  her  sons,  utters  the  famous 
monologue,  in  which  she  is  swayed  repeatedly  back 
and  forth,  until  thirst  for  revenge  finally  overmas- 
ters the  love  of  offspring.  The  imagination  will  eas- 
ily show  us  how  thrilling  the  passage  may  become 
in  the  hands  of  a  great  actor.  Moreover,  through 
it  all,  her  expressions  are  carefully  chosen,  so  that 
the  boys  themselves  do  not  comprehend  the  mur- 
derous intention  veiled  by  her  despairing  words. 


156  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

MEDEA. 

My  sons,  my  sons !     Ye  have  a  city  indeed, 

And  home  wherein  ye  shall  abide  for  aye, 

Bereft  of  mother,  leaving  me  forlorn  ! 

I,  exiled,  to  another  country  pass, 

Ere  I  have  joy  in  you  and  see  you  blest, 

Delighting  in  your  wife  and  wedded  bliss, 

Holding  aloft  for  you  the  marriage-torch. 

Accurst  am  I  for  my  perversity  ! 

In  vain,  0  children,  have  I  nurtured  you  ! 

In  vain  my  labor  and  my  agony 

When  I  the  heavy  pangs  of  travail  bore ! 

High  hopes  were  mine,  ah  me !  in  other  days, 

That  ye  should  be  the  prop  of  my  old  age, 

And  honorably  care  for  me  when  dead, 

That  men  should  envy  me.     But  now  is  lost 

That  fancy  sweet ;  for  I,  bereft  of  you, 

Shall  spend  a  sad  existence,  full  of  pain. 

And  you  with  loving  eyes  will  watch  no  more 

Your  mother,  passing  to  another  life. 

Ah  me  !     Why  do  you  gaze  on  me,  my  sons  ? 

Why  are  ye  smiling  with  that  final  smile  ? 

Alas  !     What  would  I  do  !     My  courage  fled, 

0  women,  when  I  saw  their  beaming  face. 

1  could  not  do  it !     Fare  ye  well,  my  plans 
That  were.     My  sons  I  will  lead  forth  with  me. 
Why  need  I,  but  to  pain  their  father's  heart 
Through  griefs  of  theirs,  have  twofold  harm  myself  ? 
Nay,  that  I  will  not  do.     My  plans,  farewell. 

And  yet,  what  mood  is  this  ?     Shall  I  be  mocked, 
Leaving  unrecompensed  mine  enemies  ? 
—  It  must  be  done !      Fie  on  my  cowardice  ! 
That  I  should  utter  such  faint-hearted  words  ! 


THE  MEDEA.  157 

Enter  the  house,  my  sons.     And  whosoe'er 
Must  not  be  present  at  my  sacrifice, 
Be  on  his  guard  !     My  hand  I  shall  not  lower ! 

This  must  be  regarded  as  a  warning  to  the  aged 
citizens  of  Corinth.  They  may  withdraw,  if  they 
cannot  endure  to  witness  the  deed.  To  secrecy 
they  are  already  sworn. 

Ah  me  !     Ah  me  ! 
But  prithee  yet,  my  soul,  do  not  the  deed  ! 
Release  them,  wretched  one  !     Thine  offspi-ing  spare 
To  dwell  with  us  elsewhere,  and  give  me  joy. 


Nay,  by  the  Avengers  in  the  world  below, 

IThis  will  I  never  do,  to  leave  my  sons 
To  be  insulted  by  mine  enemies. 
'T  is  quite  fulfilled.     There  shall  be  no  escape. 
Even  now  the  crown  is  on  the  princess'  head, 
And  in  her  robe  she  is  surely  perishing. 

But,  for  I  go  a  way  most  pitiful, 
And  send  them  forth  by  one  yet  more  forlorn, 
I  fain  would  greet  my  sons.     My  children,  give, 
Give  to  your  mother  your  right  hands  to  clasp. 
O  clearest  hand,  and  head  most  dear  to  me  ! 
O  noble  face  and  figure  of  my  children  ! 
May  you  be  happy  :  yonder !     What  is  here 
Your  father  robs  from  you.     O  gentle  touch  ! 
Ah  me !     My  sons'  soft  flesh,  and  breath  most  sweet ! 

—  Begone  !     Begone  !  for  I  can  look  no  more 
Upon  you,  but  by  woes  am  overborne. 

fl  realize  what  evil  deeds  I  dare  : 
But  mightier  than  my  judgment  is  my  wrath, 
The  source  of  utmost  ill  to  mortal  men ! 


158  THREE   DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

The  children  now  enter  the  house,  and  a  pause 
in  the  action  occurs,  during  which  Medea  is  watch- 
ing restlessly  for  an  expected  messenger  from  the 
king's  palace.  The  interval  is  occupied  by  a  long 
and  rather  commonplace  monologue  of  the  chorus 
on  the  sorrows  of  motherhood. 

CHORUS. 

Often  already  with  subtler  words 
In  discussions  more  earnest  have  I  engaged 
Than  are  fitly  attempted  by  womankind. 
Yet  we  too  have  a  muse,  that  discourses  to  us 
Of  wisdom  :  but  not  to  all  women  indeed. 
Rare  is  the  race.     Among  many  but  one 
Thou  perchance  wouldst  find, 
Not  averse  to  the  muse,  among  women. 

And  I  do  assert,  that  those  among  men 

Who  children  have  never  begotten  nor  known 

Are  farther  advanced  toward  a  happy  estate 

Than  the  parents  of  sons. 
For  they  who  are  childless,  who  never  have  known 
If  offspring  become  unto  mortal  men 
A  source  of  delight  or  vexation  alone, 

Are  free  from  troubles  full  many. 
But  those  who  have  children  within  their  homes, 
I  behold  with  care  for  their  cherished  young 
Wasted  away  their  whole  life  long. 
Firstly  that  they  may  rear  them  aright, 
And  leave  their  offspring  resources  for  life. 
And  if  after  all  upon  worthless  sons 
Or  virtuous  ones 

They  are  spending  their  toil,  is  uncertain. 


THE   MEDEA.  159 

But  one  thing,  the  last  of  all,  I  will  tell, 
An  evil  that  unto  all  mortals  comes. 
For  though  subsistence  enough  they  have  found, 
And  the  offspring  grow  to  maturity, 
And  upright  appear  :  yet  if  their  doom 
Shall  befall,  unto  Hades  Death  will  dart, 
Bearing  the  children's  forms  away. 
Why  then  does  it  profit,  beside  all  else 
That  this,  the  bitterest  sorrow  of  all, 
For  our  progeny's  sake 
Be  cast  by  the  gods  upon  mortals  ? 

Medea  pays  no  heed  to  these  words,  which  indeed 
give  us  the  impression  of  being  directed  avowedly 
to  the  audience,  like  the  Parabasis  of  Attic  comedy. 
The  genuineness  of  the  whole  passage  has  been 
doubted ;  but  some  stopgap  is  required  until  the 
next  messenger  comes.  The  poet  may  have  been 
unwilling  to  exceed  the  maximum  of  five  regular 
Stasima. 

MEDEA. 

My  friends,  long  since,  awaiting  the  event, 
I  watch  what  tidings  shall  from  yonder  come. 
Now  one  of  Jason's  following  I  descry 
Approaching ;  and  his  heavy-laboring  breath 
Shows  that  he  will  announce  some  new  mishap. 
At  this  point  the  messenger  comes  hurrying  in 
from  the  royal  palace. 

MESSENGER. 

Oh,  ghastly  deed  and  lawlessly  performed ! 
Begone  !     Medea,  begone,  neglecting  not 
Thy  ship,  or  car  that  traverses  the  land  ! 

MEDEA. 

What  cause  for  exile  is  befallen  me  ? 


1G0  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

MESSENGER. 

The  royal  girl  is  perished  even  now, 

And  Creon  who  hegot  her.  through  thy  drugs  ! 

MEDEA. 

Most  sweet  the  tale  thou  tellest !     Of  my  friends 
And  benefactors  shalt  thou  be  henceforth. 

The  panting  messenger  is  amazed  afresh  at  such 
reception  of  his  tidings. 

MESSENGER. 

What  sayst  thou  ?     Woman,  art  thou  sane,  not  mad, 
Thou  who  art  not  affrighted  but  rejoiced 
To  hear  the  monarch's  home  is  desolate  ? 

But  there  is  no  fear,  only  calm  exultation  in  her 
heart  now,  since  she  knows  her  rival  is  already  de- 
stroyed. She  even  answers  gently  his  rude  words 
of  surprise,  so  happy  is  her  mood. 

MEDEA. 

Somewhat  have  I  wherewith  to  make  response 
Unto  thy  words  ;  but,  pray,  be  calm,  good  friend  ; 
Tell  how  they  died ;  for  twice  as  much  shalt  thou 
Delight  me,  if  they  perished  miserably. 

And  forgetful  for  the  moment  of  the  awful  deed 
she  is  yet  to  do,  indifferent  to  the  avengers  of  blood 
who  may  at  any  moment  appear,  she  listens  with 
delight  to  the  long  and  distressing  account  of  the 
fate  which  has  befallen  Jason's  bride. 

Medea  is  doubtless  still  the  centre  of  attraction, 
and  expresses  by  gestures  her  delight  in  the  mise- 
ries she  has  caused.  The  messenger  is  evidently 
one  of  the  family  slaves,  sympathizing,  like  all  the 
household,  with  Medea. 


THE   MEDEA. 


101 


MESSENGER. 

When  thy  two  children  with  their  father  came, 

And  were  admitted  to  the  bride's  abode, 

We  slaves  rejoiced,  who  in  thy  sorrows  grieved. 

The  busy  rumor  straightway  filled  the  house, 

Thy  spouse  and  thou  had  stanched  your  former  strife. 

One  kissed  thine  offspring's  yellow  hair,  and  one 

Their  hands ;  and  I  myself  in  my  delight 

Followed  the  children  to  the  women's  rooms. 

The  lady  whom  now  we  honor  in  thy  stead, 

Ere  yet  thy  pair  of  sons  she  had  beheld, 

Fixt  upon  Jason  kept  her  eager  gaze. 

But  when  they  came  indeed,  she  veiled  her  eyes, 

And  turned  the  other  way  her  shining  cheek, 

Wroth  at  the  entrance  of  the  boys. 

Thy  lord 

Strove  to  allay  his  young  wife's  wrath  and  ire, 
Saying,  "  Be  not  unkindly  toward  thy  friends, 
But  cease  thine  anger,  turn  again  thy  face, 
Accounting  dear  even  those  thy  husband  loves. 
Accept  the  presents,  and  beseech  thy  sire 
To  free  these  boys  from  exile,  —  for  my  sake  !  " 
She,  seeing  the  ornaments,  withstood  him  not, 
But  did  his  will  in  all ;  and  ere  the  sons 
And  father  were  far  distant  from  her  halls, 
Taking  the  well-wrought  robes  she  put  them  on, 
Upon  her  ringlets  set  the  golden  crown, 
And  at  a  shining  mirror  dressed  her  hair, 
Smiling  upon  her  soulless  counterfeit. 
Then  rose  she  from  her  seat  and  crossed  the  room, 
Daintily  treading  with  her  fair  white  feet, 
Exulting  in  the  gifts  ;  and  evermore, 
On  tiptoe  rising,  backward  cast  her  eyes. 


162  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

The  realistic  grace  of  this  picture  has  always 
been  admired  ;  but  it  should  be  studied  closely  for 
a  different  reason.  Glauke  has  not  been  seen  upon 
the  stage,  doubtless  because  her  youthful  beauty 
would  have  made  Medea's  crime  seem  utterly  un- 
endurable. She  is  now  about  to  perish  by  an  ag- 
onizing death,  and,  in  order  to  intensify  its  horror 
by  contrast,  her  girlish  loveliness  must  be  brought 
vividly  before  the  hearer's  imagination. 

But  the  dramatist  was  unwilling  to  increase  our 
detestation  for  Medea  by  enlisting  our  deeper  sym- 
pathy for  the  victim  ;  and  therefore,  by  a  series  of 
delicate  touches,  Glauke  is  made  to  appear  so  heart- 
less, vain,  and  childish  that,  in  comparison  with  the 
faithful  old  servant,  or  even  with  the  fatherly  affec- 
tion of  Jason,  she  is  to  our  thoughts  as  soulless  and 
characterless  as  the  mirrored  image  at  which  she 
smiles. 

—  But  now  a  grewsome  sight  was  there  to  see  ! 
For,  changing  color,  back  she  sped  again 
With  trembling  limbs,  and  hardly  gained  her  seat 
To  fall  thereon  instead  of  on  the  earth. 
An  aged  servant  thought  a  fright  from  Pan 
Or  other  god  had  come  on  her,  and  raised 
A  prayerful  ci*y,  before  she  yet  had  marked 
The  white  froth  coming  from  her  mouth,  or  saw 
Her  rolling  eyes,  the  pallor  of  her  face. 
Then  she  responsive  to  that  cry  sent  forth 
A  mighty  wail.     One  sought  the  father's  halls, 
And  one  pursued  her  newly  wedded  lord, 
To  tell  the  bride's  mishap  ;  and  all  the  house 


THE  MEDEA.  163 

Rang  with  the  sound  of  many  a  hurrying  tread. 

Already  a  rapid  walker  in  all  haste 
The  limit  of  a  stadium  might  have  reached, 

(that  is,  might  have  walked  an  eighth  of  a  mile,) 

When  she,  who  lay  with  close-shut  speechless  eyes, 
Aroused  herself  with  a  shrill  shriek  :  poor  wretch ! 
For  twofold  agony  made  war  on  her. 
The  golden  circlet  on  her  head  sent  forth 
A  wondrous  stream  of  all-devouring  fire ; 
The  delicate  robes,  the  gift  thy  sons  had  brought, 
Gnawed  the  white  flesh  of  the  ill-fated  one. 
Burning  she  started  from  her  seat  and  fled  ; 
This  way  and  that  she  tossed  her  head  and  hair, 
And  fain  would  cast  the  crown  away :  but  close 
The  gold  did  hold  its  clasp,  the  while  the  flame 
Blazed  doubly,  as  she  shook  her  flowing  locks. 
Prone  at  the  door  she  fell,  o'ercome  by  woe,  — 
Save  to  her  sire,  most  ghastly  to  behold. 
The  expression  of  her  eyes  was  seen  no  more, 
Nor  comely  was  her  face,  but  from  her  head 
The  blood  with  fire  commingled  trickled  down ; 
And  under  the  drug's  teeth  unseen  her  flesh 
Slipped  from  her  bones  like  teardrops  from  the  fire. 
A  grewsome  spectacle !     And  all  did  fear 
To  touch  the  corpse  ;  her  fate  instructed  us. 

The  wretched  sire,  who  knew  not  her  mishap, 
Entering  the  palace,  stumbled  on  the  corpse. 
At  once  he  moaned  aloud,  and  clasped  her  form, 
Kissed  and  addressed  it  thus  :  "  Unhappy  girl, 
What  god  destroyed  thee  so  disdainfully  ? 
Who  hath  bereft  an  old  man's  tomb  of  thee  ? 


164  THREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Ah,  would  that  I  might  perish  with  thee,  child !  " 
But  when  he  ceased  from  moaning  and  lament, 
And  fain  would  raise  again  his  aged  frame, 
Like  ivy  to  the  laurel's  boughs  he  clung 
To  her  soft  robes  ;  and  fearfully  he  strove  : 
But  as  he  attempted  to  uplift  his  knees, 
She  held  him  back ;  and  when  too  hard  he  tugged, 
Tore  from  the  bones  his  venerable  flesh. 
At  length  the  ill-starred  one  ceased,  and  rendered  up 
His  soul,  —  no  longer  mightier  than  his  woe. 
Together  now  they  lie  in  death,  the  child 
And  aged  sire,  —  a  grief  that  cries  for  tears. 
Of  thine  own  safety  will  I  speak  no  word, 
For  thou  wilt  know  some  refuge  from  thy  doom. 

Medea  stands  unmoved  and  triumphant.  To 
secure  a  moment's  relief  from  action,  the  messenger 
adds  half  a  dozen  lines  on  the  fallacious  nature  of 
mortal  prosperity,  —  one  of  those  commonplaces  of 
which  the  Greeks  seemingly  never  tired,  —  and 
then  the  chorus-leader  in  response  expresses  sym- 
pathy for  Glauke,  while  declaring  that  Jason  de- 
serves all  he  has  to  suffer. 

A  shadow  still  I  'd  call  our  mortal  state, 
Nor  fear  to  say  that  those  who  claim  to  be 
Wisest  of  men  and  ponderers  of  sage  words 
Deserve  the  heaviest  of  penalties. 
No  one  is  happy  among  mortal  men. 
If  luck  flow  in,  one  is  more  fortunate 
Than  is  another.     Happy  is  not  one. 

CHORrS. 

Many  misfortunes  destiny,  it  seems, 


THE  MEDEA.  1G5 

Contrives  to-day  for  Jason,  well  deserved. 
0  wretched  one,  how  we  lament  thy  fate, 
Daughter  of  Creon,  who  to  Hades'  gates 
Hast  passed,  because  to  Jason  thou  wert  wed  ! 

MEDEA. 

0  friends,  it  is  my  fixed  intent  at  once 

To  slay  my  sons,  and  hasten  from  the  land ; 
jAnd  not,  by  losing  time,  to  expose  my  boys 
/To  death  through  other  more  unfriendly  hands. 
And  since  in  any  case  they  needs  must  die, 

1  will  destroy  them  who  did  give  them  birth. 

She  does  not  enter  the  house  upon  this  errand 
without  a  final  struggle  with  herself,  in  which  the 
poet  doubtless  intends  us  to  see  that  womanly  feel- 
ing is  not  quite  dead  in  her  savage  soul. 

Be  armed,  my  heart !     Why  do  we  hesitate 

To  work  this  dread  inevitable  ill  ? 

Come,  my  unhappy  hand,  seize  thou  the  sword,  — 

Seize  it,  and  steal  to  life's  grim  race-course  forth. 

Weaken  not,  nor  recall  how  thou  didst  bear 

Thy  children  well-beloved,  but  for  this  one 

Brief  day  at  least  do  thou  forget  thy  sons, 

And  mourn  them  then  ;  for  though  thou  slay  them, 

yet 
Dear  are  they,  and  a  wretched  woman  I. 

And  now  at  last  Medea  quits  the  stage,  and  en- 
ters her  home. 

The  last  Stasimon  begins  at  once  with  a  pas- 
sionate prayer  to  Earth  and  Helios,  the  sun-god,  to 
save  these  children  of  divine  race  from  death  at 
human  hands :    a  curious  fancy  of  the  poet,  as  it 


166  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

is  through  Medea  herself   that  the   hoys   are  de- 
scended from  the  divine  Helios. 

FIFTH  STASIMON. 

Earth,  and  shining  ray  of  Helios, 

On  this  frenzied  woman  look, 
Ere  a  crimsoned  suicidal  hand 

On  her  offspring  she  shall  lay  ! 
From  thy  golden  race  the  brood  is  sprung, 

From  the  blood  of  gods  : 
Dread  it  were,  if  they  by  men  be  slain  ! 

Zeus-begotten  Light, 
Check,  drive  forth  the  wandering  fierce  Avenger, 

Hunted  by  the  Furies,  from  this  home  ! 

The  next  strophe  is  an  attempt  to  soften  Me- 
dea's own  heart. 

Wasted  is  thy  toiling  for  thy  sons : 

All  in  vain  thou  barest  them, 
Who  didst  leave  the  dark  Symplegades, 

That  unfriendliest  rocky  pass  ! 
Why,  unhappy  one,  does  heavy  wrath 

On  thy  spirit  fall, 
And  fierce-hearted  murder  following  it? 

Grievous  for  mankind 
Is  the  stain  of  kindred  blood,  god-sent 

On  the  slayer's  house  in  equal  woes. 

Instead  of  a  third  stanza,  the  following  passage 
is  partly  lyrical,  by  the  chorus,  partly  recitative, 
from  the  children  within  the  house. 

CHORUS. 

Dost  thou  hear  the  children's  cry  ? 
O  thou  wretched  woman  evil-starred  ! 


THE  MEDEA.  167 

ELDER   BOY. 

What  can  I  do !     How  flee  my  mother's  hands ! 

YOUNGER    BOY. 

I  know  not,  dearest  brother.     We  are  lost ! 

CHORUS. 

Shall  I  enter  in?    Methinks  I  ought 
From  the  children  to  avert  their  doom. 

BOYS. 

Ay,  aid  us,  by  the  gods,  for  there  is  need  ! 
To  the  sword's  snares  we  are  already  near. 

CHORUS. 

Art  thou  rock  or  iron,  wretched  woman  tvho  wilt  slay 
With  thy  very  hands  the  brood  of  children  thou  hast 
borne  ? 

The  matrons  of  the  chorus  certainly  do  not  enter 
the  house,  however,  and  there  is  no  indication  that 
they  make  any  attempt  either  to  arrest  Medea's 
hand  or  to  summon  aid.  Instead,  they  merely 
sing  the  fourth  stanza  of  the  Stasimon  :  at  least 
they  apparently  sing  it,  though  as  it  corresponds 
perfectly  in  metre,  as  usual,  to  the  previous  pas- 
sage, the  four  lines  answering  to  the  cries  of  the 
children  are  of  course  also  in  the  ordinary  metre  of 
the  recitative.  The  subject  is  the  tale  of  Ino,  the 
only  example  of  a  mother  murdering  her  children 
which  has  ever  reached  the  ears  of  the  Corinthian 
matrons. 

But  one  woman  heretofore 

On  her  offspring  laid,  I  hear,  her  hand. 

Ino,  by  gods  made  frantic,  when  the  wife 

Of  Zens  had  sent  her  wandering  forth  from  home. 


168  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

In  the  brine  the  wretched  woman  plunged, 
Having  wrought  her  offspring's  impious  death  ; 
She  spurned  beneath  her  feet  the  sea-girt  crag, 
And  with  her  children  twain  she  met  her  death. 
—  Pray,  what   horror  yet  could  happen  ?     0  thou 

marriage-bed, 
Rich   in  sorrows,  how  much  evil  thou  hast  wrought 

for  men  ! 

The  arrival  of  Jason  in  furious  haste  from  the 
king's  palace  opens  the  Exoclos,  or  final  scene.  His 
first  line  gives  us  the  impression  that  though  the 
members  of  the  chorus  did  not  enter  the  palace, 
they  perhaps  left  the  orchestra  and  rushed  upon  the 
stage,  where  they  are  probably  standing  and  listen- 
ing, clustered  together  in  terror  at  the  door  of 
Medea's  abode. 

EXODOS. 

JASON  (entering,  to  the  chorus). 
Ye  women,  who  beside  this  dwelling  stand, 
Is  she  within  who  wrought  this  dreadful  deed, 
Medea,  or  has  she  escaped  by  flight  ? 
For  she  must  hide  herself  beneath  the  earth, 
Or  rise,  a  winged  creature,  toward  deep  heaven, 
If  she  atone  not  to  the  royal  house. 
Does  she,  who  slew  the  rulers  of  the  land, 
Trust  to  escape  unpunished  from  this  house  ? 

Jason's  next  words  reveal  that  he  knows  nothing 
of  the  deed  just  wrought : 

But  for  my  children,  not  for  her,  my  care. 

They  shall  do  harm  to  her  whom  she  has  harmed. 


THE  MEDEA.  169 

But  I  am  come  to  save  my  children's  life, 
For  fear  the  kinsmen  should  do  aught  to  them, 
Exacting  vengeance  for  their  mother's  crime. 

CHORUS. 

Unhappy  Jason,  to  what  ills  thou  'rt  come 

Thou  knowest  not !     Else  thou  hadst  not  spoken  so. 

JASON. 

What  is  it  ?     Does  she  wish  to  slay  me  too  ? 

CHORUS. 

Thy  sons  have  perished  by  the  mother's  hand. 

JASON. 

Alas,  what  sayst  thou !     Thou  hast  slain  me,  woman. 

CHORUS. 

Thine  offspring  thou  must  think  of  as  no  more. 

JASON. 

Where  slew  she  them  ?     Without,  or  in  the  house  ? 

CHORUS. 

Open  the  gates,  and  see  thy  children  dead. 

Rendered  almost  frantic  by  this  second  blow,  Jason 
rushes  madly  at  the  bolted  gates,  striving  to  break 
them  down  with  his  hands. 

JASON. 

Push  back  the  bolts  at  once,  O  slaves,  undo 
The  bars,  that  I  may  see  this  double  woe, 
My  dead  sons,  and  avenge  on  her  their  death ! 

But  the  dramatist  realizes  that  we  can  endure  no 
more  deeds  of  violence.  It  is  rather  time  to  calm 
somewhat  the  feelings  excited  by  the  last  scenes, 
before  the  play  closes.  Anything  like  reconcilia- 
tion, with  which  the  Alkestis  and  Hippolytos  end, 
is  here  impossible.     The  best  resource  at  command 


170  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

is  to  remind  us  of  Medea's  divine  origin  and  su- 
perhuman resources,  in  a  manner  which  shall  make 
her  life  with  Jason  seem  little  more  than  the  volun- 
tary descent  of  the  goddesses  from  Olympos  ;  as 
when,  for  instance,  Aphrodite  deigns  to  dwell  for  a 
brief  season  on  earth  as  the  bride  of  a  mortal  man. 
Accordingly  the  voice  of  Medea  is  now  suddenly 
heard  from  above,  and  as  Jason  looks  up  he  be- 
holds her  rising  aloft  upon  a  chariot  drawn  by 
griffins.  Her  children's  bodies  are  lying  beside 
her. 

MEDEA. 

Why  dost  thou  strive  to  move  and  foi'ce  this  gate, 
Seeking  the  slain,  and  me  who  wrought  the  deed  ? 
Cease  from  that  toil.     If  thou  hast  need  of  me, 
Speak  what  thou  wilt.    Thou  shalt  not  touch  me  more. 
This  chariot  has  my  grandsire  Helios 
Given  me,  to  save  me  from  my  foemen's  hand. 

Jason  nevertheless  assails  her  fearlessly  with  bit- 
terest words,  and  to  the  end  shows  no  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  wrong -doing.  Our  sympathy  is 
not  drawn  to  him  by  his  self-satisfied  tone. 

JASON. 

Thou  hated  woman,  most  detestable 
To  gods,  to  me,  and  all  the  race  of  men, 
Who  durst  into  thy  children's  bodies  plunge 
The  sword,  who  hast  bereft  and  ruined  me  ! 
And  after  this  thou  lookest  on  the  sun 
And  earth,  who  hast  done  this  most  unholy  deed  ? 
Accurst  be  thou  !     Now  am  I  sane  ;  not  when 
From  thine  abode  and  a  barbarian  land 


THE   MEDEA.  171 

I  led  thee  to  a  Grecian  home,  thou  wretch  ! 
Betrayer  of  sire  and  land  that  nourished  thee  ! 
Thy  line's  Avenger  the  gods  cast  on  me  ! 
Thy  brother  at  the  hearthstone  thou  hadst  slain, 
Ere  thou  didst  enter  fair-prowed  Argo's  hull. 

But  these  are  crimes  committed  for  his  sake  and 
with  his  full  knowledge,  for  which  he  has  professed 
in  the  past  only  gratitude  and  devotion. 

Such  thy  beginnings  !  and  when  thou  wert  wed 
With  me,  and  children  unto  me  hast  borne, 
In  lustful  jealousy  thou  murderest  them ! 
No  Grecian  woman  ever  could  have  done 
This  deed  :  instead  of  whom  I  chose  to  wed 
With  thee.     A  deadly  and  hostile  tie  for  me  ! 
A  lioness,  no  woman,  with  a  soul 
More  wild  than  Scylla  the  Tyrrhenian  ! 
Enough  !  for  by  reproaches  without  end 
I  could  not  touch  thee,  such  thy  shamelessness  ! 
Off,  evil-doer,  thy  children's  murderess ! 
But  I  may  mourn  my  hapless  destiny, 
I  who  from  my  young  bride  shall  have  no  joy, 
Nor  may  I  greet  in  life  the  sons  whom  I 
Begat  and  reared,  but  am  bereft  of  them. 

Medea  disdains  to  justify  herself. 

MEDEA. 

Unto  thy  words  would  I  have  made  reply 

At  length,  were  it  not  that  Zeus  the  father  knows 

What  thou  hast  done  and  suffered  at  my  hands. 

'T  was  not  for  thee,  dishonoring  my  bed, 

To  spend  a  joyous  life  and  mock  at  me  ; 

The  royal  girl,  and  Creon  who  made  the  match, 


172  THREE   DRAMAS    OE  EURIPIDES. 

Were  not  to  thrust  me  from  the  land  in  shame. 
So  call  me,  if  thou  wilt,  a  lioness, 
And  Scylla  who  dwelt  in  the  Tyrrhenian  land  ; 
For  I  have  wrung  as  it  deserved  thy  heart. 

At  this  point,  if  not  before,  most  readers  will 
feel  that  the  play  might  better  have  ended.  But 
the  wretched  pair  of  unnatural  parents  continue  to 
taunt  each  other  for  nearly  sixty  lines  more. 

JASON. 

Thou  sufferest  too,  and  sharest  in  the  woe. 

MEDEA. 

Ay,  hut  if  thou  laugh  not,  't  is  worth  the  pain. 

JASON. 

Children,  an  evil  mother  have  ye  found. 

MEDEA. 

Sons,  how  ye  perished  by  a  father's  fault ! 

JASON. 

It  was  not  my  right  hand  that  wrought  them  harm. 

MEDEA. 

—  But  thy  new  wedlock  and  outrageous  deeds. 

JASON. 

And  daredst  thou  for  my  marriage  murder  them  ? 

MEDEA. 

Slight  trouble  for  a  wife  thou  countest  that  ? 

JASON. 

If  she  were  wise  ;  but  thou  art  evil  in  all. 

MEDEA. 

These  are  no  more.     That  word  shall  gnaw  thy  heart ! 

JASON. 

And  grimly  shall  they  haunt  thee  for  thy  sin  ! 

MEDEA. 

The  immortals  know  who  laid  this  train  of  woes. 


THE  MEDEA.  173 


JASON. 


Surely  they  know  thy  most  detested  soul. 

MEDEA. 

Hate  me  !     And  I  thine  acrid  speech  abhor. 

JASON. 

As  I  do  thine  :  but  easy  is  release. 

MEDEA. 

How  ?     By  what  means  ?     For  this  I  much  desire. 

JASON. 

Leave  me  to  bury  and  mourn  for  these  my  dead. 

MEDEA. 

Nay  !     But  to  Hera  Acraia's  holy  close 

I  '11  bear  and  with  mine  own  hand  bury  them, 

So  that  no  foe  may  do  them  violence, 

Rifling  their  sepulchres  ;  and  on  this  land 

Of  Sisyphos  a  solemn  festival 

And  rites  I  enjoin  hereafter  for  this  crime. 

This  announcement  is  clearly  intended  to  remind 
the  audience  that  what  they  see  and  hear  is  after 
all  only  an  ancient  legendary  scene.  These  rites 
were  actually  performed  in  the  poet's  own  time,  at 
the  shrine  of  Hera  in  the  neighbor  city.  It  seems 
strange  that  their  celebration  is  enjoined  upon  the 
Corinthians  by  the  guilty  shedder  of  blood  herself. 
The  explanation  of  course  is,  that  the  expiatory 
ceremonies  were  connected  with  the  earlier  form 
of  the  legend,  according  to  which  the  Corinthians 
murdered  the  children  of  their  benefactress. 

But  I  am  going  to  Erechtheus'  land, 

Where  with  Pandion's  son,  Aigeus,  I  '11  dwell. 

Thou,  base  one,  basely,  as  is  fit,  shalt  die, 


174  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

Smitten  upon  the  head  by  Argo's  wreck, 
When  thou  our  wedlock's  bitter  end  hast  seen. 

JASON. 

May  thy  children's  Fury,  and  Justice  severe, 
Destroy  thy  life  ! 

MEDEA. 

"What  god  or  dsemon  hearkens  to  thee, 

Who  betrayest  thine  oath  and  deceivest  thy  host  ? 

JASON. 

Ah  me  !  thou  abhorred  one,  who  slayest  thy  sons ! 

MEDEA. 

Betake  thee  homeward,  and  bury  thy  spouse. 

JASON. 

Of  both  my  children  bereft  I  go. 

MEDEA. 

Lament  not  yet !     Await  old  age ! 

JASON. 

0  children  beloved ! 

MEDEA. 

By  their  mother,  not  thee ! 

JASON. 

And  yet  thou  hast  slain  them ! 

MEDEA. 

To  give  thee  pain  ! 

JASON. 

Ah  me !  how  I  long  in  my  wretchedness 
To  kiss  my  children's  well-loved  lips ! 

MEDEA. 

Now  thou  wouldst  greet  them,  caress  them  now, 
Who  then  didst  spurn  them  ! 

JASON. 

Permit,  by  the  gods, 
That  I  touch  my  children's  delicate  flesh  ! 


THE  MEDEA.  175 

MEDEA. 

Not  so !  thy  word  is  sent  forth  in  vain. 

JASON. 

0  Zeus,  dost  thou  hear  how  we  are  repelled, 
What  we  suffer  from  this  abhorred  one, 
This  lioness,  murderess  of  her  young  ? 

But  so  far  at  least  as  I  may  and  can, 

This  I  bemoan,  and  invoke  the  gods, 

Calling  the  powers  divine  to  behold 

How  slaying  my  children  thou  hinderest  me 

From  embracing  their  forms  and  interring  the  dead. 

1  would  that  I  ne'er  had  begotten  my  sons, 
Thus  slain  by  thee  to  behold  them. 

Medea  now  vanishes,  while  Jason  departs  to  the 
palace.  The  play  closes  with  a  few  commonplace 
lines  by  the  chorus,  —  lines  which  are  found  doing 
duty  at  the  end  of  several  among  Euripides'  extant 
dramas. 

CHORUS. 

Many  things  Zeus  in  Olympos  controls, 
Much  unforeseen  the  gods  fulfill. 
What  men  have  expected  comes  not  to  pass, 
For  what  we  expect  not  a  god  finds  way  ; 
And  so  has  it  fared  in  this  matter  ! 

Doubtless  every  thoughtful  reader  has  already 
become  conscious  of  the  great  lack  in  this  play. 
There  is  a  striking  absence  of  noble  character  and 
lofty  sentiment.  The  Hippolytos  is  preeminently 
a  drama  of  unflinching  courage.  Phaidra  and 
Hippolytos,  foes  in  life  and  death  though  they  be, 
are  alike  in  choosing  destruction  in  preference  to 
dishonor.     In   the  Alkestis,  self-sacrifice  is   made 


17G  THREE   DRAMAS    OF   EURIPIDES. 

lovely,  and  cowardly  selfishness  contemptible, 
though  we  confess  the  poet  does  not  himself  seem  to 
realize  how  pusillanimous  a  figure  his  Admetos  is. 

In  this  drama,  guilt  triumphant  in  Medea  and 
guilt  punished  but  unrepentant  in  Jason  are  al- 
most alike  abhorrent.  To  both  of  them  fame  seems 
equally  precious,  whether  it  be  won  by  great  good 
or  terrible  evil  wrought  for  other  men.  Sin  is  in- 
deed made  repugnant,  but  the  sinners  should  have 
been  brought  nearer  to  our  human  sympathies,  so 
that  we  might  take  deeply  into  our  own  hearts  the 
lesson  of  their  fall. 

This  lack  of  which  we  complain  can  perhaps 
best  be  felt  by  comparing  the  Medea  with  that 
other  tragedy  of  murder  inspired  by  jealousy,  to 
which  allusion  has  already  been  made.  The  error 
and  the  atonement  of  Othello  have  infinitely  more 
moral  significance  and  value  to  us,  because  we  feel 
the  warmest  admiration  and  affection  for  the  chiv- 
alrous soldier,  the  ardent  lover,  the  devoted  hus- 
band. As  the  last  scene  closes,  our  hearts  tell  us, 
Here  is  a  man  like  unto,  in  much  far  nobler  than, 
ourselves.  Heaven  guard  us  all  from  such  tempta- 
tion !  At  Medea  we  shudder,  and  rejoice  to  see 
her  at  last  lifted  away  from  earth  and  out  of  full 
sisterhood  with  mortal  women  ;  but  what  wife  or 
mother  can  feel  she  has  learned  the  lesson  which 
she  would  ever  need  to  recall  ? 

It  is  perhaps  not  a  satisfactory  plea  for  the  poet, 
but  it  is  the  simple  truth,  to  reply  that  he  probably 
used  the  legend  just  about  as  he  found  it.     It  is 


THE  MEDEA.  177 

only  justice  to  appreciate  the  skillful  simplicity  of 
the  drama  as  he  has  given  it  shape,  and  the  fitness 
of  every  part  to  its  place. 

Noticeable  also  is  the  reverent  tone  of  all  allu- 
sions to  the  higher  powers,  even  by  the  worst  of 
the  characters.  The  choral  odes  in  particular 
breathe  a  spirit  of  earnest  piety.  The  faithful  de- 
votion of  the  old  house-servants,  here  as  in  many 
Euripidean  plays,  lightens  the  painful  effect  pro- 
duced by  the  vileness  of  the  more  prominent 
figures. 

I  venture  to  question  the  soundness  of  one  criti- 
cism made  by  the  highest  authority.  The  ven- 
geance of  Medea  is  said  to  be  left  incomplete,  and 
perhaps  ineffective,  because  the  poet  has  overlooked 
the  obvious  possibility  that  Jason  may  yet  have 
offspring  by  a  third  wife.  It  seems  to  me  that  this 
view  fails  to  give  proper  significance  to  the  closing 
scene.  Medea  is  not  merely  successful  in  her  plans. 
She  is  revealed  as  under  especial  divine  protection, 
endowed  with  prophetic  power  and  with  complete 
knowledge  of  Jason's  fate.  One  of  her  merciless 
responses  to  his  outcries  of  agony  is  : 

Lament  not  now  !     Await  old  age  ! 

and  the  clear  intention  of  the  dramatist  is  that 
Jason  lives  only  to  prolong  the  vengeance  inflicted 
on  him  by  this  demoniac  and  superhuman  savage, 
whom  he  wedded  in  madness  and  blindness,  and 
whose  might,  though  only  now  entirely  revealed, 
was  in  fact  resistless  from  the  first. 


178      THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

It  is  true  that  in  the  earlier  scenes  Medea  is  not 
fully  aware  of  her  own  power  ;  but  surely  here 
every  one  will  agree  with  the  judgment  of  the  poet, 
who  has  tried  to  paint  the  central  figure  of  his 
tragedy  as  at  least  half  woman,  not  all  daemon. 

It  is  only  for  men  and  women,  after  all,  that  our 
deepest  sympathies  can  be  enlisted. 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS. 

We  may  fairly  characterize  the  Hippolytos  by 
saying  that  it  is,  of  all  the  eighteen  extant  dramas 
of  our  author,  preeminently  Euripidean.  It  illus- 
trates most  adequately  and  clearly  of  them  all, 
perhaps,  those  qualities  for  which  the  poet  has 
been  most  warmly  admired,  and  those  which  have 
brought  upon  him  the  severest  censure. 

The  latest  method  of  studying  the  literatures  of 
the  past  is  borrowed  from  the  natural  sciences.  Its 
aim  is  to  trace  historically  the  development  of  ru- 
dimentary into  more  elaborate  forms.  This  would 
be  an  especially  instructive  manner  of  treating  the 
Attic  drama,  but  the  same  difficulty  awaits  us  here 
as  in  other  forms  of  literature.  The  master-pieces 
in  each  kind  have  so  entirely  supplanted  the  ruder 
works  of  the  earlier  time  that  these  latter  have  per- 
ished, leaving  hardly  a  trace  behind  them. 

We  are  practically  forced  to  begin  with  ^Eschy- 
los ;  and  though  we  have  abundant  reason  to  re- 
gard him  as  bj^  far  the  most  original  and  creative 
spirit  of  all  who  aided  in  the  development  of  tra- 
gedy, yet  we  cannot  always  know  what  to  attribute 
to  his  individual  genius,  or  how  much  was  even  in 
his  day  part  of  the  sacred  traditions  of  the  Diony- 
siac  theatre. 


180  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

But  it  seems  almost  certain  that  it  was  iEschy- 
los  himself  who  made  so  prominent  in  the  drama 
that  doctrine  of  Nemesis,  which  he  taught  with 
such  terrific  power.  The  chief  lesson  of  tragedy 
in  his  hands  is,  that  full  atonement  in  suffering 
\  must  be  paid  by  every  man,  not  only  for  his  own 
sins,  but  also  for  all  the  crimes  of  his  ancestry. 

"For  every  guilty  deed 
Holds  in  itself  the  seed 
Of  retribution  and  undying  pain." 

This  doctrine  is  taught  by  Sophocles  also,  but 
softened  in  his  theology  by  a  somewhat  milder  con- 
ception of  the  divine  justice  as  tempered  with 
mercy,  while  human  nature  is  invested  by  him  with 
a  certain  firmness  and  serenity  of  spirit,  which 
makes  his  men  and  women  seem  less  helpless  in 
their  dependence  upon  destiny.  His  belief  was 
doubtless  rather  artistic  than  personal,  rather  the 
faith  of  Virgil  than  that  of  Cato,  but  at  any  rate 
it  sufficed  to  reconcile  him,  as  a  dramatic  artist,  to 
the  traditions  and  limitations  of  the  Dionysiac  cer- 
emonial. 

In  Euripides  this  serene  trust  in  the  justice  of 
the  supernatural  powers  is  deeply  perturbed  and 
shaken.  The  awful  yet  noble  doctrine  of  Nem- 
esis, the  divine  retribution  which  not  even  the 
gods  could  avert  if  they  would,  sinks  toward  the 
more  vulgar  feeling  often  voiced  by  Herodotus, 
and  so  vividly  illustrated  in  the  famous  legend  of 
Polycrates  and  his  ring :  that  the  higher  powers 
grudge  mankind  that  unalloyed  happiness  which  is 


TEE   IIIPPOLYTOS.  181 

their  own  especial  privilege,  and  therefore  constant 
prosperity,  however  innocent,  must  surely  lead  to 
a  precipitate  and  ignoble  fall.  This  belief  is  ex- 
pressly disclaimed  by  iEschylos  in  a  striking  and 
famous  choric  passage. 

Euripides  had  not  indeed  the  courage,  probably 
not  even  the  opportunity,  to  break  openly  with  the 
religious  traditions  of  his  art ;  yet  with  many  of 
them  he  must  have  been  covertly  at  war.  We 
hardly  suppose  that  he,  or  indeed  any  of  the  en- 
lightened group  about  Pericles,  had  any  earnest 
and  living  belief  remaining'  even  in  the  existence  of 
the  divinities  who  make  up  the  quarrelsome  family 
of  Zeus.  Certainly  he  saw  how  most  of  the  incon- 
gruous legends  concerning  them  had  sprung  up  in 
a  ruder  age  than  his  own,  and  he  abhorred  the  tales 
which  ascribed  to  gods  crimes  and  vices  too  debased 
for  the  worst  of  men. 

It  appears  very  plainly  from  Euripides'  works 
that  he  had  no  clearly  defined  and  firmly  held  theo- 
logical beliefs  at  all.  Whatever  superhuman  agen- 
cies he  employs  in  each  play  are  introduced  either 
for  dramatic  convenience,  or  to  satisfy  the  vague 
and  shallow  yet  dangerous  orthodoxy  of  the  people. 

Thus  Apollo  makes  a  graceful  figure  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  Alkestis  :  he  has  worked  a  mysterious 
miracle  to  save  Admetos'  life  ;  and  he  is  eulogized, 
and  implored  —  vainly  !  —  for  aid,  in  the  choral 
odes.  Yet  he  flees  in  terror  from  Thanatos,  whom 
the  mortal  hero,  Heracles,  resists  and  overthrows. 
Death  himself,  and  the  dreaded  Fates  also,  are  left 


182  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

unappeased  and  almost  forgotten  when  the  play 
ends.  The  moral  seems  to  be  almost  rudely  drawn : 
that  the  patient  endurance  of  woman,  the  brave 
resistance  of  man,  can  baffle  destiny,  and  work 
miracles  even  greater  than  Apollo's  devotion  can 
bring  to  pass ! 

In  the  Medea,  the  innocent  are  unprotected  and 
unavenged,  the  guiltiest  sinner  is  unpunished.  In- 
deed, Helios,  who  is  usually  identified  with  Apollo, 
interferes  actively  at  the  last  to  save  Medea  from 
vengeance  well  -  deserved ;  though  this  action  is 
doubtless  imagined  as  prompted  by  natural  affec- 
tion for  a  grandchild,  quite  regardless  of  all  con- 
siderations of  justice,  human  or  divine. 

In  the  Hippolytos,  the  gods  are  almost  avow- 
edly diabolical  in  character.  The  description  of 
divine  government  put  into  the  mouth  of  Artemis 
is  simply  Pandemonium  elevated  to  supreme  power. 
The  plot  turns  upon  the  vengeance  of  Aphrodite 
wreaked  upon  the  chaste  favorite  of  Artemis, 
merely  because  he  disdained  the  delights  of  sen- 
sual love.  Both  goddesses  appear  upon  the  stage, 
but  all  our  admiration  is  bestowed  upon  the  human 
characters  of  the  play.  Their  courage  and  nobility 
of  soul  are  in  the  sharpest  contrast  with  the  mur- 
derous jealousy  of  Aphrodite,  the  helplessness  and 
malignant  revenge  of  Artemis. 

At  times,  in  the  midst  of  such  dramas,  we  seem 
to  hear  clearly  the  stern  voice  of  the  agnostic  poet : 
"  Behold  your  gods,  O  men  of  Athens,  drawn  even 
as  your  own  legends  bid  me  draw  them.     Do  you 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  183 

find  it  hard  to  believe  in  divinities  capable  of  the 
vilest  passions  and  the  meanest  actions  ?  Why  be- 
lieve in  them,  then  ?  The  gods  should  be  more 
wise  than  humankind  !  " 

Of  course  this  attitude  of  half -a  vowed  hostility 
and  incredulity  toward  his  own  characters  is  an 
unfortunate  one  for  the  artist,  and  often  mars  his 
work.  Yet  he  was  necessarily  almost  wholly  re- 
stricted for  his  dramatic  material  to  myths  in  which 
the  gods  must  play  more  or  less  prominent  parts. 
It  may  often  have  been  an  irksome  question  to  him  : 
"  How  far  must  I  disguise  my  own  convictions  to 
appease  the  superstitious  orthodoxy  of  the  people  ?  " 
When  this  discontent  breaks  forth  through  the  lips 
of  his  characters,  it  is  a  decisive  proof  that  he  has 
not  yet  attained  that  perfect  sympathy  with  his 
material  toward  which  the  artist  strives.  Yet  this 
very  fact  seems  to  me  to  show  that  he  had  lofty 
ideals,  a  truly  artistic  nature,  an  earnestly  reverent 
spirit. 

The  Hippolytos  is  the  first  Greek  play  we  possess 
in  which  the  passion  of  love  is  the  chief  subject ; 
but  to  these  words  we  must  not  attach  any  medi- 
aeval or  modern  chivalric  associations.  Especially 
it  is  to  be  hoped  the  reader  does  not  approach 
this  play  with  impressions  derived  from  Racine's 
Phedre.  It  is  not  Phaidra  but  Hippolytos  who  is 
the  hero  and  proper  subject  of  our  drama,  and  a 
Hippolytos  as  remote  as  can  well  be  imagined  from 
the  conceptions  of  the  French  classical  stage.     The 


184  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

passion  with  which  Phaidra  feels  herself  cursed  is  a 
distinctly  sensual  one,  and  in  the  talk  of  the  unscru- 
pulous old  nurse  there  is  something  of  the  blunt- 
ness,  though  not  the  vulgarity,  of  the  nurse  in  Ro- 
meo and  Juliet.  Doubtless  the  devout  conservative 
Athenian  saw  in  the  play  as  a  whole  a  signal  warn- 
ing against  contempt  or  neglect  of  any  divinity,  and 
particularly  of  Aphrodite.  But  as  has  been  al- 
ready intimated,  the  drama  has  another  and  very 
different  significance,  which  at  times  becomes  quite 
transparent  to  every  attentive  spectator. 

The  stage  represents  the  front  of  a  palace  in 
Troizene,  whither  Theseus,  King  of  Athens,  has 
come  to  efface  the  pollution  incurred  by  shedding 
the  blood  of  a  rebellious  kinsman.  His  wife,  Phai- 
dra, a  Cretan  princess,  daughter  of  the  notorious 
Pasiphae  and  sister  of  Ariadne,  has  accompanied 
him.  Among  his  many  earlier  amours,  Theseus 
had  won  the  love  of  the  Amazon  queen  Hippolyte, 
by  whom  he  had  a  son,  Hippolytos.  This  young 
prince  had  been  virtuously  bred  in  Troizene  by  his 
father's  friend  Pittheus,  who  was  just  mentioned, 
as  may  be  remembered,  in  the  Medea.  Hippolytos 
is  now  sharing  the  abode  of  Theseus  and  Phaidra, 
and  Theseus  is  absent  upon  a  journey. 

Statues  of  the  two  goddesses,  Aphrodite  and  Ar- 
temis, stand  before  the  palace ;  and  throughout  the 
play  there  is  a  dual  arrangement  of  the  characters 
and  an  elaborate  correspondence  of  persons  and 
groups,  such  as  may  be  clearly  traced  in  certain 
famous   ancient  paintings  :  for  example,  the  Fall 


THE  HIPP0LYT08.  185 

of  Ilios,  by  Polygnotos,  in  the  Lesehe  at  Delphi, 
which  is  described  at  great  length  in  the  tenth 
book  of  Pausanias'  itinerary.  A  similar  arrange- 
ment is  usual  in  the  pediment  groups  of  Greek 
temples.  The  one  goddess  appears  in  the  Pro- 
logue, the  other  in  the  Exodos.  Hippolytos  is  the 
favorite  of  Artemis,  Phaidra  wholly  in  the  power 
of  Aphrodite.  Phaidra,  with  her  old  nurse  and 
maids,  issues  from  the  palace  ;  Hippolytos,  with 
his  venerable  serving-man  and  other  attendants, 
appears  returning  from  the  hunt.  The  first  half 
of  the  play  culminates  in  the  suicide  of  Phaidra, 
the  second  in  the  death  of  Hippolytos.  Theseus, 
the  king,  is  the  central,  the  pivotal,  though  not  the 
most  prominent  figure. 

Aphrodite,  not  entering  like  an  ordinary  charac- 
ter, but  appearing  aloft,  speaks  the  Prologue. 

PROLOGUE. 

APHRODITE. 

Known  among  men,  and  not  unnamed,  am  I, 
The  goddess  Kypris,  and  in  heaven  as  well. 
Of  all  who  dwell  between  the  Atlantic  bounds 
And  Euxine  Sea,  and  look  upon  the  sun, 
Those  I  advance  who  reverence  my  power, 
And  those  who  proudly  scorn  me  I  bring  to  grief. 
For  this  is  natural  even  for  the  gods, 
To  take  delight  in  honors  from  mankind. 

Soon  will  I  prove  the  truth  of  these  my  words. 
The  son  of  Theseus  and  the  Amazon, 
Hippolytos,  by  holy  Pittheus  bred, 
Alone  of  men  in  this  Troizenian  land 


186  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Calls  me  the  basest  of  divinities. 

He  shuns  the  joys  of  love,  and  will  not  wed. 

Artemis,  Phoibos'  sister,  child  of  Zeus, 

He  honors,  thinking  her  the  chief  of  gods  ; 

And  ever  in  the  greenwood  with  the  maid 

Destroys  the  beasts  with  his  fleet-footed  hounds, 

Enjoying  more  than  human  comradeship. 

And  that  I  grudge  him  not ;  for  why  should  I  ? 
But  will  avenge  his  sins  against  myself 
This  day  upon  Hippolytos  ;  and  much 
Being  done  already,  light  is  now  my  task. 
For  once,  when  he  had  gone  from  Pittheus'  halls 
To  see  and  share  the  holy  mysteries 
In  Attica,  his  father's  high-born  wife, 
Phaidra,  beheld  him,  and  was  smitten  at  heart 
With  furious  passion,  through  my  artifice. 
And  ere  she  came  to  this  Troizenian  shore, 
Beside  the  rock  of  Pallas,  whence  this  land 
Is  seen,  for  Kypris  she  had  built  a  fane, 
Loving  in  absence.     From  Hippolytos 
She  bade  the  temple  henceforth  take  its  name. 

Now  Theseus  leaves  the  land  Kecropian, 
Fleeing  the  stain  from  the  Pallantids'  blood, 
And  voyages  with  his  wife  unto  this  land, 
Accepting  year-long  exile  from  his  home. 
But  yet,  though  moaning  and  half  mad,  still  mute 
The  wretched  woman  bears  her  passion's  goad ; 
Not  one  of  all  her  household  shares  her  woe. 

But  not  in  this  wise  shall  her  passion  end. 
To  Theseus  I  will  show  and  prove  the  truth. 
The  sire  himself  shall  slay  the  youth,  my  foe, 
Through  fatal  curses ;  for  the  lord  of  waves, 


THE  UIPPOLYTOS.  187 

Poseidon,  promised  Theseus,  as  a  boon, 
Three  prayers  unto  the  god  should  be  fulfilled. 
And  she,  though  noble,  yet  shall  perish  too, 

—  Phaidra,  —  nor  do  I  count  her  pain  so  dear 
But  that  my  enemies  must  pay  to  me 

A  retribution  that  shall  make  amends. 
But,  for  the  son  of  Theseus  I  descry, 
Approaching,  having  left  the  toilsome  hunt, 

—  Hippolytos  I  mean,  —  I  will  depart. 
And  close  behind,  a  merry  attendant  throng 
Chant  the  resounding  praise  of  Artemis. 

He  does  not  know  that  Hades'  gates  are  open 
For  him  :  he  shall  not  see  another  day  ! 

As  the  haughty  and  beautiful  young-  Hippolytos 
enters,  he  is  singing  a  hymn  to  Artemis,  his  invis- 
ible companion  and  protectress.  This  is  taken  up 
by  the  band  of  huntsmen,  and  finally  Hippolytos 
repeats  the  refrain. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Come,  follow,  and  sing,  as  you  follow, 
Artemis,  dwelling  in  heaven, 
Daughter  of  Zeus,  who  protects  us  I 

HUNTSMEN. 

Lady  !  0  lady,  most  holy  and  pure  !     Daughter  of 

Zeus  ! 
Hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  0  thou  virgin 
Artemis,  daughter  of  Leto  and  Zeus! 
Loveliest  art  thou  of  maidens  by  far, 
Who  within  the  heavens  wide 
Dwellest  within  the  paternal  hall, 
In  the  resplendent  palace  of  Zeus! 


188  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Hail  to  thee,  0  loveliest, 
Loveliest  of  maids  that  dwell 
In  Olympos,  Artemis! 

Hippolytos  is  perhaps  now  first  visible,  and  as  lie 
enters  he  approaches  the  statue  of  Artemis,  hold- 
ing the  wreath,  from  which  our  play  takes  its 
name  Hippolytos  Stephanephoros,  or  the  Garland- 
bearer,  to  distinguish  it  from  an  earlier  and  less 
successful  version  of  the  same  story  by  Euripides 
himself. 

This  garland,  woven  from  the  virgin  mead, 
O  lady,  I  have  shaped,  and  bring  to  thee,  — 
Where  neither  shepherd  dares  to  graze  his  flock, 
Nor  yet  has  come  the  scythe,  but  in  the  spring 
The  honey-bee  flits  o'er  the  mead  unshorn, 
And  Reverence  keeps  it  fresh  with  river-dews. 
They  who,  untaught,  within  their  very  souls 
Have  virtue,  shown  in  all  their  deeds  alike, 
May  cull  therefrom  :  the  evil  enter  not. 
But  O  dear  lady,  for  thy  golden  hair 
Receive  a  coronal  from  a  reverent  hand  ; 
For  I,  alone  of  mortals,  have  this  right. 
With  thee  I  live,  and  answer  thee  in  words, 
Hearing  thy  voice,  but  seeing  not  thy  face. 
May  I  turn  the  goal  of  life  as  I  began ! 

Any  Greek,  even  though  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
tale  of  Phaidra  and  Hippolytos,  though  the  threats 
of  Aphrodite  were  not  still  ringing  in  his  ears, 
would  feel  that  words  so  presumptuous  as  these 
must  rouse  the  anger  of  Nemesis  ;  and  as  the  prince 


THE   HITPOLYTOS.  189 

turns  away,  his  faithful  old  serving-man  ventures 
to  admonish  him,  though  with  evident  timidity. 

SERVANT. 

0  prince,  —  for  lords  we  call  the  gods  alone,  — ■ 
Wouldst  thou  accept  a  counsel  shrewd  from  nie  ? 

H1PPOLYTOS. 

Ay,  gladly  :  else  I  should  not  show  me  wise. 

SERVANT. 

Dost  thou,  pray,  know  the  custom  fixed  by  men  — 
Hippolytos  interrupts  impatiently. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

1  know  it  not !     Why  dost  thou  question  me  ? 

SERVANT. 

—  To  hate  the  proud  and  unapproachable  ? 

hippolytos. 
And  rightly  :  who  is  proud  and  not  abhorred  ? 

SERVANT. 

And  men  have  pleasure  in  the  courteous  ? 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Surely,  and  profit  too,  with  little  toil. 

SERVANT. 

And  dost  thou  deem  it  true  of  gods  as  well  ? 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Ay,  if  our  mortal  nature  follows  theirs. 

SERVANT. 

Why  then  dost  thou  not  greet  this  mighty  god  ? 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Whom  ?  —  But  be  cautious  lest  thy  lips  may  err  ! 

SERVANT. 

Kypris,  who  stands  beside  thy  portals  here. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

I,  who  am  chaste,  salute  her  from  afar. 


190  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

SERVANT. 

But  she  is  mighty,  and  famed  among  mankind. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

No  god,  nor  man,  is  dear  alike  to  all. 

SERVANT. 

May  Heaven  accord  thee  joy,  —  and  fitting  thoughts  ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

No  god  delights  me  worshiped  in  the  night. 

SERVANT. 

"We  ought  to  pay  fit  honors  to  the  gods. 

Hippolytos,  turning  away  from  his  unwelcome 
counselor,  replies : 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Attendants,  go,  and  passing  to  our  home 
Prepare  the  food.     A  bountiful  repast 
After  the  chase  is  sweet  —  and  you  must  rub 
The  steeds,  that  I  may  yoke  them  to  the  car 
When  I  have  eaten,  and  train  them  fittingly. 

Then  as  he  enters  the  palace  he  adds  mockingly 
to  the  old  servant : 

—  Thy  Kypris  now  I  bid  a  long  farewell ! 

The  devoted  old  man  is  thus  left  quite  alone,  and 
straightway  throws  himself  before  the  statue  of 
Aphrodite,  with  these  touching  words.  They  seem 
to  come  very  near  to  the  spirit  of  true  humility,  a 
virtue  of  which  the  wise  Dr.  Peabody  used  to  tell 
us  the  world  had  no  conception  until  Christianity 
was  preached. 

SERVANT. 

And  we,  not  imitating  younger  men, 
But  with  the  lowly  heart  befitting  slaves, 


THE   HIPPOLYTOS.  191 

Will  make  our  prayer  unto  thy  image  here, 

O  lady  Kypris  !     Grant  thy  pardon,  pray, 

If  any  one  in  youthful  pride  of  heart 

Speaks  idle  words,  and  do  not  seem  to  hear.        \ 

The  gods  should  be  more  wise  than  humankind.     * 

He  now  follows  his  master  within,  and  the  stage 
is  deserted.  This  closes  the  Prologue,  and  the 
members  of  the  chorus  at  once  enter.  They  repre- 
sent matrons  of  the  city,  who  have  heard,  through 
the  royal  washerwoman,  that  the  queen  has  taken  to 
her  bed  ;  and  they  now  come  hastening  to  the  pal- 
ace, full  of  sympathy  and  curiosity.  They  march 
in  and  take  their  places  during  the  following 

PARODOS. 
Trickling  with  the  spray  of  Ocean 
Stands  a  rock,  and  from  its  crest 
Leaping  runs  a  hurrying  streamlet, 
Whence  in  ewers  men  might  dip. 
There  a  woman,  by  me  beloved, 
Plunging  garments  purple-dyed 
Into  the  current,  upon  the  ridges, 
Rocky,  sun-warmed,  laid,  them  down. 
First  through  her  I  learned  the  story 
Of  the  trouble  of  our  queen  :  — 

The  garments  mentioned  are  those  of  the  royal 
family,  dyed  with  Tyrian  purple. 

How  she  lies,  by  illness  wasted, 
On  her  couch,  and  with  delicate  robes 
Shrouds  her  auburn  head  in  darkness. 
Now  for  the  third  day,  so  are  we  told, 


192  THREE   DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

Biding  her  fast,  she  keeps  her  body 
From  Demeters  bounty  pure, 
Which  across  her  lips  ambrosial 
Passes  not.     In  secret  grief 
Gladly  she  her  bark  ivould  anchor 
In  the  gloomy  port  of  death. 

The  bounty  of  Demeter  is  of  course  bread,  and  so 
food  in  general. 

By  a  god  art  thou  possessed, 

Hecate,  0  queen,  or  Pan, 

Or  the  Corybantes  dread, 

Or  the  Mother,  mountain-born. 

Artemis,  who  loves  the  chase, 

For  neglected  sacrifice 

Bids  thee  in  atonement  pine  ; 

For  across  the  lakes  she  roves, 

Over  lands  and  over  seas 

On  the  watery  eddies  rides. 

Is  thy  husband,  nobly-born, 
Rider  of  Erechtheus1  sons, 
By  a  secret  love  beguiled 
From  thy  bed  within  his  halls  ? 
Has  a  mariner  arrived, 
Coming  from  the  shores  of  Crete 
Toward  our  hospitable  port, 
Bringing  tidings  for  the  queen, 
And  in  grief  for  sorroivs  heard 
Is  she  prostrate,  body  and  sold  ? 

Often  in  our  fretful  woman  nature 
Dwells  a  miserable  aimless  longing, 


THE   HIPPOLYTOS.  193 

Sprung  from  labor,  pain  and  mad  desire. 

Through  my  body  too  this  breeze  has  darted, 
But  I  called  on  Artemis  in  heaven, 
Archer-goddess,  aiding  us  in  travail, 

Who  with  the  other  gods  respojids  to  prayer. 

But  there  is  the  ancient  nurse  at  the  doors, 
Bringing  our  lady  forth  from  the  hall. 
Darkly  gathers  the  cloud  on  her  hrow. 
What  is  it :  my  soul  is  desirous  to  learn  : 
That  has  wasted  away 
The  pallid  form  of  the  princess  ? 

Phaidra  is  now  brought  out  from  the  palace, 
lying  upon  a  couch,  and  attended  by  her  nurse  and 
other  servants. 

The  nurse  is  one  of  those  Euripidean  characters 
which  seem  grotesquely  unsuited  to  the  mask  and 
buskin,  the  stiffness  and  dignity  of  the  old  tragedy. 
They  explain  to  us  the  powerful  influence  of  Eurip- 
ides upon  the  later  union  of  tragedy  and  comedy 
in  the  domestic  melodramas  of  Menander  and  his 
school.  On  this  as  on  nearly  every  subject  touched 
in  these  essays,  the  reader  is  urged  to  consult  the 
helpful  essays  of  John  Addington  Symonds,  in  his 
"  Studies  of  the  Greek  Poets." 

FIRST  EPISODE. 

NURSE. 

Oh  the  troubles  of  men,  and  detestable  ills ! 
Pray  what  shall  I  do  for  thee,  what  shall  I  not  ? 
See  !     Here  is  the  daylight,  and  here  is  the  air, 


194  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

And  forth  from  the  house  already  is  brought 

Thy  invalid  couch  ; 

—  For  hither  to  come  was  thy  constant  desire, 

And  soon  to  thy  chamber  thou  'It  hasten  again  ; 

For  quickly  thou  'rt  wearied,  and  never  content. 

What  is  here  cannot  please  thee,  and  what  thou  hast 

not 
Thou  accountest  more  dear  ! 
A  sickness  is  easier  than  to  be  nurse. 
Thy  trouble  is  simple  :  for  me  are  conjoined 
The  worry  of  mind  and  the  labor  of  hands. 
The  existence  of  mortals  is  nothing  but  pain, 
And  there  comes  no  relief  from  labor. 

Then  like  the  similar  character  in  Medea,  the  fussy 
old  creature  glides  off  into  generalities. 

But  if  there  be  aught  else  sweeter  than  life, 
The  darkness  about  us  enshrouds  it  in  gloom. 
Hence  passionate  lovers  of  life  we  appear, 
Because  of  the  glamour  about  it  on  earth, 
Through  lack  of  assurance  of  living  elsewhere, 
And  ignorance  as  to  the  world  below. 
We  with  idle  tales  are  deluded ! 

Phaidra  now  rouses  somewhat,  and  addresses  her 
attendants. 

PHAIDRA. 

Uplift  my  body,  and  raise  my  head. 

In  every  joint  am  I  relaxed. 

My  attendants,  grasp  my  shapely  hands. 

My  head-dress  is  heavier  than  I  can  bear; 

Remove  it ;  spi*ead  over  my  shoulders  my  locks. 

The  nurse  attempts  to  offer  vague  consolation. 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  195 

NURSE. 

Be  encouraged,  my  child  ;  nor  give  thyself  pain 
By  moving  thy  frame. 
Resignation  and  noble  endurance  in  thee 
Will  make  thy  disease  more  easy  to  bear  ;  — 
And  trouble  is  needful  for  mortals. 

The  sufferer's  next  words  are  utterly  perplexing 
to  the  nurse,  but  we,  instructed  by  Aphrodite,  at 
once  comprehend  that  Phaidra's  thoughts  are  with 
Hippolytos  in  his  wonted  haunts. 

PHALDKA. 

Ah  me  ! 
I  would  that  from  some  refreshing  spring 
I  might  quaff  a  cup  of  water  clear, 
And  under  the  shadow  of  poplar-trees 
In  the  leafy  mead  might  lie  and  rest ! 

NURSE. 

How  thou  speakest,  my  child ! 

Pray  talk  not  thus  in  the  midst  of  the  throng, 

Nor  utter  such  words,  upon  madness  borne  ! 

But  in  yet  more  excited  words  the  queen  breaks 
forth. 

PHAIDRA. 

To  the  mountains  send  me !     I  go  to  the  wood, 
And  among  the  pines  where  course  the  dogs, 
Destroying  the  beasts, 

Pressing  close  on  the  track  of  the  dappled  deer. 
By  the  gods  !     I  am  eager  to  cry  to  the  hounds, 
Or  about  my  blonde  hair  whirl  and  throw 
The  Thessalian  lance,  and  to  hold  in  hand 
The  keen-tipped  spear ! 


196  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

The  fresh  breath  of  woodland  life,  which  gives 
a  peculiar  charm  to  many  scenes  of  this  play,  is 
strongly  felt  in  these  outbursts  of  the  languishing 
queen. 

NURSE. 

Why  givest  thou  thought,  my  child,  to  this  ? 
Or  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  the  hunt, 
And  why  art  longing  for  spring-fed  streams  ? 
For  close  by  the  walls  is  a  dewy  slope, 
Whence  one  might  bring  a  draught  for  thee. 

PHAIDRA. 

0  Artemis,  sea-washed  Limna's  queen, 
Where  to  coursers'  tramp  the  gymnasia  resound, 

1  would  I  were  now  upon  thy  plain, 
Curbing  and  guiding  Venetian  steeds  ! 

The  nurse  is  now  greatly  shocked  as  well  as  per- 
plexed. 

NURSE. 

What  words  thou  hast  uttered  in  madness  once  more  ! 
Even  now  thou  wert  gone  to  the  hills :  thy  desire 
Was  fixed  upon  hunting :  but  now  on  the  sands 
Unreached  by  the  billow  thou  longest  for  steeds  ! 
Our  need  is  extreme  for  a  soothsayer,  who 
Would  tell  what  god  now  draws  at  the  rein, 
And  thy  mind,  O  my  child,  deranges  ! 

PHAIDRA. 

Wretch  that  I  am,  what  deed  have  I  done  ! 

Where  have  I  strayed  from  wisdom's  path ! 

I  am  mad  :  I  am  smitten  with  frenzy  god-sent ! 

Alas  for  my  woe  ! 

O  mother,  cover  my  face  once  more, 

For  we  are  ashamed  of  the  words  I  have  said. 


THE  H1PP0IYT08.  197 

Conceal  it !     A  tear  runs  down  from  my  eyes, 
And  my  glances  in  shame  are  earthward  cast ; 
For  reproof  of  our  feelings  is  heavy  to  hear, 
And  an  evil  is  madness :  far  better  it  is 
Still  bereft  of  our  senses  to  perish  ! 

Phaidra  now  sinks  back  upon  the  couch,  and  re- 
mains motionless  during  the  following  dialogue. 

•  NURSE. 

•     I  cover  thee.     When,  I  wonder,  will  death 
My  body  conceal  ? 

Much  have  I  learned  through  length  of  days. 
It  were  better  if  mortals  by  moderate  bonds 
Of  affection  the  one  to  the  other  were  held, 
And  not  to  the  marrow  itself  of  their  souls  ; 
And  more  readily  loosed  were  the  ties  of  the  heart, 
And  men  were  more  easily  sundered  and  joined. 
But  if  one  soul  is  racked  for  the  sake  of  twain, 
'T  is  a  burden  most  grievous  :  even  as  I 
Am  tortured  for  her. 
Too  painful  devotion  in  life,  it  is  said, 
More  frequently  leads  to  harm  than  to  joy, 
And  oftener  wars  on  the  health  of  men. 
And  therefore  excess  I  less  applaud 
Than  "  In  nothing  too  much  "  :  — 
And  in  this  the  wise  will  approve  me. 

One  of  the  chorus  gives  utterance  to  the  friendly 
curiosity  which  she  can  no  longer  restrain. 

CHORUS. 

Thou  aged  woman,  royal  Phaidra's  nurse 
Most  trusty,  we  heboid  this  grievous  chance, 
Bat  what  her  illness  be,  is  dark  to  us. 
This  we  would  wish  to  ask  and  hear  from  thee. 


198  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

NURSE. 

I  have  asked,  but  know  not ;  for  she  will  not  speak. 

CHORUS. 

Nor  even  tell  the  occasion  of  her  grief  ? 

NURSE. 

'T  is  still  the  same.     All  this  she  leaves  unsaid. 

CHORUS. 

How  forceless  and  exhausted  is  her  frame  ! 

NURSE. 

Surely :  three  days  she  has  not  tasted  food. 

chorus. 
Is  this  in  frenzy,  or  does  she  strive  to  die  ? 

NURSE. 

I    She  does,  and  fasts  to  rid  herself  of  life. 

CHORUS. 

'T  is  strange,  if  this  shall  satisfy  her  lord. 

NURSE. 

She  hides  her  grief,  and  says  she  is  not  ill. 

CHORUS. 

And  he  discerns  not,  gazing  on  her  face  ? 

NURSE. 

He  now  by  chance  is  absent  from  the  land. 

CHORUS. 

Dost  thou  not  force  her,  striving  to  explore 
Her  trouble,  and  the  wanderings  of  her  mind  ? 

NURSE. 

All  have  I  tried,  and  have  accomplished  naught, 
Nor  yet  will  I  even  now  relax  my  zeal, 
So  that  thou,  being  here,  mayst  testify 
How  true  I  am  to  lords  in  evil  plight. 

And  turning  to  Phaidra,  the  nurse  continues : 


THE  E1PT0LYT0S.  199 

Come,  O  dear  daughter,  let  us  both  forget 
Our  former  words,  and  do  thou  be  more  mild, 
Softening  thy  darksome  brow,  and  paths  of  thought ; 
And  I,  where  I  unwisely  answered  thee, 
Will  change,  and  seek  for  other  better  words. 
If  thou  art  ailing  with  some  private  pain, 
These  women  will  assist  to  treat  thy  ills ; 
But  if  thy  trouble  can  be  told  to  men, 
Speak,  that  it  may  be  to  physicians  known. 

—  Well :   why  art  silent  ?     Thou  shouldst  talk,  my 
child. 
Either  refute  me,  if  I  speak  not  well, 
Or  grant  assent  to  wisely  uttered  words. 
Break  silence  !     Gaze  this  way !     Ah  wretched  me  ! 
Women,  with  vain  exertion  do  we  toil ; 
We  fail,  even  as  before  ;  for  then  was  she 
Untouched  by  words,  and  now  she  hearkens  not. 

Then,  bethinking  her  that  loyalty  to  her  offspring 
may  be  the  one  motive  which  will  draw  the  queen 
back  from  her  determination  to  die  in  silence, 
Yet,  though  thou  be  more  stubborn  than  the  sea, 
Bethink  thee,  if  thou  die,  thou  wilt  betray 
Thy  offspring,  who  will  share  no  father's  wealth ; 
Nay,  by  the  Amazonian  warrior-queen, 
Who  bore  him  who  shall  be  thy  children's  lord ; 
A  bastard,  noble-souled  — •  thou  knowest  him  well, 
Hippolytos. 

Thus  skillfully  has  the  poet  led  up  to  the  sudden 
utterance  of  the  fateful  name.  The  nurse  is  of 
course  touching  the  chord  of  jealousy  for  her  chil- 
dren, as  she  supposes,  to  rouse  her  mistress,  and 


200  THREE  DRAMAS   OP    EURIPIDES. 

has  no  suspicion  of  Phaidra's  real  feeling.  The 
queen  cannot  repress  a  cry  of  distress. 

PHAIDRA. 

Alas! 

NURSE  (triumphantly). 
This  touches  thee  ? 

PHAIDRA. 

Thou  hast  destroyed  me,  mother !  by  the  gods 
I  beg  thou  mention  not  again   the  man  ! 

NURSE. 

Thou  seest  ?     Thou  hast  thy  senses,  yet,  though  wise, 
Wilt  not  thy  children  aid,  and  save  thy  life. 

PHAIDRA. 

I  love  them,  but  by  other  ills  am  tost. 

The  nurse  seizes  eagerly  upon  Phaidra's  compara- 
tive willingness  to  talk,  and  continues  to  question 
her: 

NURSE. 

Thy  hands,  at  least,  my  child,  are  pure  from  blood  ? 

PHAIDRA. 

My  hands  are  pure,  my  spirit  is  defiled. 

NURSE. 

Is  suffering  come  upon  thee  through  a  foe  ? 

PHAIDRA. 

A  friend  destroys  me,  against  his  will  and  mine. 

The  Greek  word  <£i'A.os,  which  we  are  compelled 
to  translate  "  friend,"  means  also  kinsman,  or  con- 
nection —  one  within  the  inner  circle  of  familiarity ; 
or  as  our  German  cousins  would  say,  one  to  whom 
we  say  Du. 

NURSE. 

Has  Theseus  injured  thee  in  any  wise  ? 


THE  H1PP0LYT0B.  201 

PHAIDRA. 

Never  may  I  be  seen  to  do  him  wrong ! 

NURSE. 

What  dire  misfortune  urges  thee  to  die  ? 

PHAIDRA. 

Leave  me  to  do  the  wrong.  —  I  wrong  not  thee  ! 

NURSE. 

Not  willingly  :  but  thou  'It  elude  me  still. 
That  is,  by  dying  in  silence,  unconfessed. 

PHAIDRA. 

What  dost  thou  ?     thou  art  rude  to  clutch  my  hand. 

NURSE. 

Nor  will  I  ever  cease  to  clasp  thy  knees. 

Phaidra's  next  words  show  that  she  is  beginning 
to  yield  to  importunity. 

PHAIDRA. 

'T  would  bring  thee  bitter  grief  to  learn  the  truth. 

NURSE. 

What  grief  is  worse  than  to  be  robbed  of  thee  ? 

PHAIDRA. 

'T  will  slay  thee  !     Yet  my  deed  is  honorable. 

She  means  suicide  is  honorable,  since  it  is  the 
only  escape  from  the  thoughts  and  desires  which 
her  womanly  soul  abhors.  The  nurse,  however, 
does  not  understand  her. 

NURSE. 

And  wilt  thou  hide  this  good,  despite  my  prayers  ? 

PHAIDRA. 

To  flee  from  shame  I  seek  a  noble  way. 

NURSE. 

By  speaking  thou  wilt  prove  thee  worthier. 


202  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

PHAIDRA. 

I  pray  thee,  get  thee  gone !     Release  my  hand  ! 

NURSE. 

Nay,  for  thou  grantest  not  the  fitting  boon. 

Phaidra  finally  determines  to  utter  the  thoughts 
which  torture  her  beyond  endurance. 

PHALDRA. 

I  grant  it,  reverencing  thy  honored  hand. 

NURSE. 

I  am  silent,  since  't  is  now  for  thee  to  speak. 

PHAIDRA. 

If  thou  couldst  tell  me  fitting  words  to  say. 

NURSE. 

No  seer  am  I,  who  clearly  knows  the  obscure. 

phaidra  (desperately). 
Prithee,  what  thing  is  this  which  men  call  love  ? 

NURSE. 

Most  sweet,  my  child,  and  likewise  bitterest  pain. 

PHAIDRA. 

But  we  are  like  to  know  the  last  alone. 

NURSE. 

What  sayst  thou  ?    Art  thou  in  love  ?    And  with  what 
man  ? 

PHAIDRA. 

Whoe'er  he  is,  the  son  of  the  Amazon  — 

NURSE. 

Hippolytos  ! 

phaidra  (faintly). 
Thine  own,  not  mine,  the  word  ! 

NURSE. 

Alas !     What  sayst  thou !     I  am  slain  !  my  child  ! 
Then  turning  to  the  chorus,  the  nurse  continues : 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  203 

Women,  I  can  no  more  endure  to  live. 

Detested  is  the  daylight  and  the  sun. 

I  will  fling  my  body  away  :  I  will  free  myself, 

By  dying,  from  life.     Farewell :  I  am  no  more. 

The  chaste,  not  willingly,  but  none  the  less 

Desire  the  base.     Sure  Kypris  is  no  god, 

But  whatsoe'er  is  mightier  than  a  god, 

Who  ruins  my  lady,  and  me,  and  all  the  house. 

CHORUS. 

Hast  thou  listened  to  our  lady 
Uttering  her  unheard-of 'trouble ! 
May  I  perish,  dearest  mistress, 
Ere  thou  gainest  thy  desire  ! 
Oh,  thou,  wretched  in  thy  sorrows  ! 
Oh,  the  woes  that  wait  on  mortals  ! 
Fatal  griefs  hast  thou  revealed. 
What  a  time  is  this  awaits  thee  / 
Something  strange  befalls  thy  house. 
Not  obscure  thy  passion's  issue, 
O  unhappy  child  -of  Crete  ! 

Phaidra  has  meanwhile  regained  her  self-control, 
and  addresses  the  chorus  in  a  long,  dignified, 
and  noble  speech,  setting  forth  with  pathetic  vivid- 
ness the  struggle  which  she  has  been  carrying  on 
against  the  invincible  and  demoniac  power  of  Aph- 
rodite. 

PHAIDRA. 

Troizenian  women,  who  inhabit  here 
The  outmost  court  of  Pelops'  land,  ere  now 
In  long  night-watches  with  far-roving  thoughts 
I  have  pondered  how  the  life  of  men  is  ruined. 
It  seems  to  me,  that  not  unwittingly 


204      THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

They  turn  to  evil,  for  good  sense  is  found 
In  many  ;  —  but  one  ought  to  reason  thus  : 
1  We  realize  and  understand  the  right, 
I  But  tire  in  effort,  some  through  indolence, 
Some  choosing  other  pleasures  in  the  stead 
Of  duty ;  and  many  pleasures  life  contains, 
—  Idle  conversings,  sloth,  that  pleasant  ill, 
And  shame  ;  — hut  that  is  twofold,  one  not  base, 
And  one  the  curse  of  homes ;  if  what  befits 
Were  clear,  there  would  not  be  two  named  alike. 

Since  therefore  I  have  learned  to  see  this  truth, 
There  is  no  drug  could  so  enfeeble  me 
That  I  would  yield  from  my  intent  again. 

Her    intention   to   destroy    herself    is   of    course 
meant. 

And  I  will  tell  the  process  of  my  thoughts. 

When  passion  smote  me,  I  considered  how 

I  might  endure  it  best ;  and  I  began 

To  bide  in  silence  and  to  hide  my  hurt. 

For  in  no  tongue  I  trust,  which  understands 

To  criticise  the  thoughts  of  other  men, 

And  countless  evils  in  itself  contains. 

Next,  I  determined  better  to  endure 

My  madness,  conquering  it  by  self-restraint. 

And  third,  when  by  these  means  I  still  had  failed 

To  master  Kypris,  dying  seemed  to  me 

Wisest ;  and  no  one  shall  oppose  my  plans  : 

For  may  I  not  do  well  unseen,  nor  have 

A  host  of  witnesses  to  evil  deeds. 

I  knew  the  act,  and  even  my  desire 
Was  infamous,  and  knew,  too,  that  I  was 


THE  HirPOLYTOS.  205 

That  hated  thing,  a  woman.  —  May  she  die 
In  utter  wretchedness,  who  first  betrayed 
Her  marriage-vow  with  strangers  !     This  befell 
With  women  first  who  sprang  from  lofty  race  ; 
For  when  vile  actions  please  the  nobly  born, 
The  vulgar  surely  will  account  them  good. 
I  hate  the  women,  virtuous  in  name, 
Who  venture  secretly  on  shameful  deeds. 
How  can  they  ever,  O  Kypris,  sea-born  queen, 
Endure  to  look  their  husbands  in  the  face  ? 
Do  they  not  shudder  at  their  accomplice  Night, 
Or  lest  their  chamber-walls  may  cry  aloud  ? 
This  very  thought,  dear  friends,  is  slaying  me, 
That  I  will  not  be  found  dishonoring 
My  husband,  nor  the  children  whom  I  bore : 
But  may  they  flourish,  frank  of  speech  and  free, 
In  glorious  Athens,  not  through  me  disgraced. 
The  man,  however  bold,  is  made  a  slave, 
Who  knows  of  either  parent's  evil  deed : 
And  this  alone  endures  as  long  as  life 
In  him  who  has  it  :  conscience  just  and  pure. 
Setting  before  them,  as  before  a  girl, 
His  mirror,  Time  exposes,  when  he  may, 
The  wicked.     May  I  not  with  them  be  seen ! 

Surely  this  is  a  noble  and  heroic  soul,  struggling  ■ 
against  sensual  passion,  and  determined  to  perish  | 
rather  than  fall.  In  order  fully  to  realize  the  pa- 
thos of  Phaidra's  situation,  we  must  remember  that 
though  she  does  not  know  it,  she  is  utterly  helpless 
in  the  grasp  of  an  irresistible  and  almost  demonia- 
cal power,  which  is  using  her  merely  to  work  out 
an  ignoble  revenge.  What  a  contrast  between 
such  a  woman  and  such  a  goddess ! 


200  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

CHORUS. 

Ah  me  !  how  fair  is  virtue  everywhere, 
And  harvests  good  repute  among  mankind. 

The  nurse,  who  meanwhile  has  regained  her 
courage,  now  begins  a  speech  which  is  thoroughly 
Euripidean  in  several  ways.  The  poet  has  a  fond- 
ness, like  that  of  a  clever  pleader,  not  perhaps  for 
"  making  the  worse  appear  the  better  reason,"  but 
at  any  rate  for  showing  how  fair  an  appearance 
may  be  put  even  upon  a  desperately  bad  case.  Of 
course  the  villainous  logic  of  the  old  nurse  con- 
vinces no  one ;  but  it  may  well  have  won  from  the 
Athenian  auditor  a  smile  of  pleasure  by  its  inge- 
nuity. It  is  like  our  poet,  too,  to  adorn  just  this 
chief  speech  of  his  worst  character  with  ingenious 
fancy  and  mythical  allusion.  This  lavish  use  of 
poetic  wealth  in  a  bad  cause  will  remind  us  of 
the  long  and  eloquent  farewell  address  of  Adme- 
tos  to  the  wife  whom  his  own  cowardice  dooms  to 
death. 

NURSE. 

My  lady,  thy  calamity  but  now 

Produced  in  me  great  terror  suddenly : 

Yet  now  I  see  't  was  weakness  :  and  in  men 

The  second  thought  is  somehow  wiser  too. 

For  thou  hast  suffered  naught  untold  or  strange. 

The  anger  of  the  goddess  on  thee  falls. 

Thou  lovest,  —  is  it  strange  ?  —  with  many  more 

Of  men  ;  but  wilt  thou  lose  thy  life  for  love  ? 

Wretched  are  they  who  love  their  neighbor,  or 

Who  may  hereafter,  if  their  doom  be  death ! 


THE  H1PP0LYT0S.  207 

Invincible  is  Kypris  when  she  comes 
With  furious  onset.     Gently  she  pursues 
The  yielding  one,  but  him  of  haughty  soul 
She  seizes  and  abases  utterly. 
She  floats  in  air,  and  rides  upon  the  wave 
Of  ocean ;  out  of  her  all  things  are  sprung ; 
For  she  it  is  implants  and  gives  desire, 
Whereof  we  all  are  children  on  the  earth. 

They  who  possess  the  books  of  elder  men, 
And  with  the  Muses  ever  live  themselves, 
Know  well  that  Zeus  of  old  desired  to  wed 
With  Semele,  and  the  fair-shining  Dawn 
Once  snatched  up  Kephalos  among  the  gods 
In  her  desire  ;  —  and  yet  they  dwell  in  heaven, 
Nor  do  they  shun  the  pathways  of  the  gods ; 
They  love,  submissive  to  —  calamity  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  yield  ?     On  other  terms  indeed. 
With  other  gods  for  lords  thou  shouldst  have  been 
Begotten,  since  our  ways  delight  thee  not ! 
How  many,  thinkest  thou,  are  wise  enough 
To  see  their  marriage-rights  betrayed,  and  seem 
To  see  it  not  ?     How  many  erring  sons 
Have  fathers  helped  to  win  their  loves  ?     The  wise 
Agree  in  this,  —  disgrace  must  be  —  concealed.        I 
Life  should  not  be  too  full  of  anxious  toil. 
If  thou  hast  more  in  thee  of  good  than  ill, 
Why,  then,  thou  dost,  being  human,  wondrous  well. 
Nay,  cease,  dear  child,  from  evil  thoughts,  and  cease 
From  insolence,  —  for  this  is  nothing  less, 
To  wish  to  be  more  mighty  than  the  gods. 
Submit  to  love.     A  god  has  willed  it  so. 
Since  ill  thou  art,  control  it  as  thou  mayst. 
For  there  are  charms,  and  incantations  too. 


208  THREE   DRAMAS   OF   EURIPIDES. 

A  drug  to  cure  thy  trouble  will  appear ; 
Men  would  be  slow  indeed  to  find  a  way, 
Did  not  we  women  spy  devices  out ! 

CHORUS. 

Phaidra,  she  speaks  more  profitable  words 
Concerning  this  thy  grief ;  but  thee  I  praise. 
But  yet,  our  praise  is  worse  than  her  reproach 
To  thee,  and  bitterer  for  thee  to  hear. 

PHAIDRA. 

'T  is  this  that  wrecks  the  prosperous  towns  of  men, 
And  ruins  homes  :  too  cunning  arguments  ! 
We  should  not  speak  the  words  that  please  the  ear, 
But  that  which  brings  an  honorable  fame. 

NURSE. 

"Why  speak'st  thou  solemnly  ?     Not  fitting  words 
Thou  needest,  —  but  the  man  we  needs  must  test, 
Telling  him  straightway  all  the  truth  of  thee. 
Yet  if  thy  life  were  not  involved  in  woes, 
Or  if  thou  still  wert  firm  in  self-control, 
Not  for  thy  passion's  sake  nor  thy  delight 
"Would  I  so  aid  thee ;  but  to  save  thy  life 
Is  my  great  task  :  and  this  may  not  be  blamed. 

PHAIDRA. 

Speaker  of  dreadful  words,  pray  close  thy  mouth, 
Nor  utter  further  shameful  arguments  ! 

NURSE. 

Shameful,  but  better  than  good  words  for  thee ; 
rifor  't  is  a  better  deed,  to  save  thy  life, 
'Than  if  thou  perish,  proud  in  thy  good  name. 

PHAIDRA. 

Proceed  not,  by  the  gods !     Thou  talkest  well, 
But  shamefully  ;  and  passion  so  my  soul 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  209 

Has  mastered,  if  thou  speak  dishonor  fair, 
I  shall  submit  to  that  which  now  I  flee ! 

NURSE. 

If  so  thou  deemest,  not  to  have  erred  were  best ; 
But  now,  obey  me  ;  't  is  the  lesser  good. 
Within  the  palace,  I  have  magic  charms 
For  love  ;  —  and  now  occurs  to  me  a  plan 
Which  without  shame  or  harm  shall  free  thy  soul 
From  this  disease,  if  thou  'It  be  valorous. 

The  real  intention  of  the  nurse  remains  always 
quite  fixed.  She  will  reveal  Phaidra's  passion  to 
Hippolytos,  hoping  that  lie  will  return  her  affection. 
But  to  silence  Phaidra's  opposition  for  the  moment 
she  pretends  that  she  is  going  into  the  palace 
merely  to  prepare  a  magic  potion  which  will  free 
the  queen  of  her  infatuation. 

We  must  obtain  a  token  from  the  man, 
A  lock  of  hair,  or  fragment  of  his  robe. 

This  is  the  common  superstition,  that  some  ob- 
ject closely  associated  with  Hippolytos  is  essential 
to  such  a  philtre. 

PHAIDRA. 

An  ointment,  or  a  potion  is  thy  drug  ? 

This  question  catches  the  nurse  quite  off  her 
guard. 

NURSE. 

I  know  not !     Seek  for  help,  not  knowledge,  child  ! 

PHAIDRA. 

I  fear,  lest  thou  may  all  too  cunning  prove  ! 

nurse. 
Thou  'rt  ever  timorous  !     What  hast  thou  to  dread  ? 


210  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

PHAIDRA. 

Lest  thou  say  aught  of  me  to  Theseus'  son  ! 

It  is  evident  that  Phaidra  is  by  no  means  inno- 
cent. The  nurse  would  not  have  acted  in  the  face 
of  a  decided  prohibition. 

NURSE. 

Leave  that,  my  child :  I  will  attend  to  it. 
Only  do  thou,  O  Kypris,  sea-born  queen, 
Assist  me  !  —  But  the  rest  of  what  I  plan 
It  will  suffice  to  tell  the  friends  within ! 

[Exit  to  the  palace. 

The  dramatic  effectiveness  of  this  scene  is  evi- 
dent. The  momentary  weakness  of  Phaidra  is 
after  all  Aphrodite's  sin  rather  than  hers,  and 
rouses  our  sympathy  for  her  the  more.  The  brief 
flash  of  hope  in  her  eyes  is  but  the  foreshadowing 
of  still  blacker  despair. 

During  the  following  choric  song  Phaidra  is  lis- 
tening eagerly  at  the  palace  door,  and  the  excited 
words  of  the  nurse  and  Hippolytos,  which  reach 
her  ears  from  within,  finally  cause  her  to  bid  the 
chorus  be  silent. 

The  song  celebrates  the  terrible  might  of  Eros, 
Love,  who  should  be  worshiped  as  a  mightier  god 
than  Delphian  Apollo  or  Olympian  Zeus.  The 
carrying  off  of  lole  by  Heracles,  and  the  fate  of 
Theban  Semele,  burned  to  ashes  by  Zeus's  light- 
nings, are  described  as  instances  of  the  deadly 
power  of  passion. 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS. 
FIRST  STASIMON. 

CHORUS. 

Love,  0  Love,  whose  eyes  with  longing 
Overflow,  who  sweet  delight 
Br  ingest  to  the  soul  thou  stormest, 
Come  not,  prithee,  sorrow-laden, 
Nor  too  mighty,  unto  me  ! 
Neither  flaming  fire  is  stronger, 
Nor  the  splendor  of  the  stars, 
Than  the  shaft  of  Aphrodite, 
Darting  from  the  hands  of  Eros, 
Who  is  child  of  Zeus  supreme. 

Vainly,  vainly,  by  Alpheios, 
Or  in  Phoibos'  Pythian  fane, 
Hellas  heaps  the  slaughtered  oxen  ! 
Eros,  of  mankind  the  tyrant, 
Holder  of  the  key  that  locks 
Aphrodites  dearest  chambers, 
Is  not  honored  in  our  prayers, 
Though  he  comes  as  the  destroyer, 
Bringing  uttermost  disaster, 
Unto  mortals,  when  he  comes. 

That  Oichalian  virgin  girl, 
Never  wedded  nor  a  bride, 
Kypris  hurried  far  away, 
Like  a  frenzied  Bacchanal,  — 
In  the  midst  of  blood  and  smoke, 
And  with  gory  nuptial  rites, 
On  Alcmene's  son  bestou-ed, 
In  her  wedlock  all  unblest. 


211 


212  THREE    DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

Thou,  0  holy  wall  of  Thebes, 
Well  might  tell,  and  Dirke's  stream, 
Hoiv  to  mortals  Kypris  comes. 
For  with  thunder  wrapt  in  fire 
Bacchos1  mother  low  she  laid, 
Wedded  to  a  fearful  fate. 
Terribly  she  breathes  on  all, 
Even  as  a  bee  she  flies. 

Phaidra   has   meanwhile   been   listening  at  the 
gates,  and  now  interrupts  the  choric  song. 


SECOND  EPISODE. 

PHAIDRA. 

Be  silent,  woman,  I  am  shamed  forever ! 

CHORUS. 

What  dreadful  thing  is  happening  in  thy  house  ? 

PHAEDRA. 

Hold  !     I  would  learn  the  speech  of  those  within. 

CHORUS. 

I  am  silent :  but  an  evil  prelude  this ! 

PHAIDRA. 

Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 

Ah,  wretched  am  I  in  my  miseries ! 

chorus  (chanting  together). 
What  sound  hast  thou  uttered  !     What  hast  thou 

said  ! 
Pray  tell  us  what  voice  affrights  thee,  0  lady, 
Assaulting  thy  heart. 

PHAIDRA. 

I  am  ruined  !     Stand  thou  here  beside  the  gates, 
And  hear  the  sound  that  falls  within  the  house. 


TEE  IIIPPOLYTOS.  213 

CHORUS. 

Nay,  thou  'rt  at  the  portal  !   the  words  that  are  sent 

From  the  palace  concern  thee  ! 

But  tell  me,  I  pray,  what  evil  befalls. 

Like  several  passages  in  the  Medea,  this  seems 
to  be  merely  a  plausible  excuse  for  the  chorus, 
which  remains  in  the  orchestra  despite  Phaidra's 
invitation. 

PHAIDRA. 

The  son  of  the  horse-loving  Amazon 

Shouts,  uttering  to  my  servants  fearful  things ! 

chorus. 
Tlie  outcry  I  heard,  but  coidd  not  tell  clearly 
Which  way  it  had  come. 
The  shouting  teas  borne  through  the  gates  to  thee. 

PHAIDRA. 

Ay,  and  the  vile  procuress  has  revealed 
Who  has  betrayed  the  honor  of  her  lord ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas  for  thy  sorrows!     Thou  art  betrayed! 

What  advice  may  I  give  thee  ! 

Thy  secret  is  uttered  :  thou  art  destroyed  ! 

PHAIDRA. 

Alas !     Alas  ! 

CHORUS. 

Betrayed  by  thy  friends  ! 

Phaidra  even  at  this  instant  defends  the  good 
intention  of  the  nurse. 

PHAIDRA. 

She  loved  me,  but  not  wisely,  who,  to  cure  v 
My  illness,  told  my  griefs  and  ruined  me.    ' 

CHORUS. 

What  wilt  thou  do  in  this  most  desperate  strait? 


214  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

PHAIDRA. 

I  only  know,  that  I  at  once  must  die  ! 
For  my  afflictions  this  is  the  only  cure. 

The  palace-doors  are  thrown  open  from  within, 
and  Hippolytos,  horrified  at  what  he  has  just  heard, 
rushes  out  into  the  open  air,  while  the  nurse,  cling- 
ing frantically  to  him,  begs  him  not  to  betray  her 
secret.  Phaidra  is  not  noticed  by  them  during  the 
scene,  and  she  perhaps  shrinks  back  to  the  right 
just  as  they  appear.  If  the  palace-door  remained 
open,  it  may  have  screened  her  from  Hippolytos' 
sight.  In  any  case  the  spectators  still  see  her,  and 
watch  the  effect  upon  her  of  the  prince's  words. 

hippolytos  (entering). 

0  mother  earth  and  glowing  sun,  what  sound 
Of  words  unutterable  have  I  heard ! 

nurse  (entering,  following  Hippolytos). 
Be  silent,  youth,  ere  some  one  hear  thy  shouts. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Hearing  such  horrors,  I  cannot  hold  my  peace  ! 

NURSE. 

Yea,  by  thy  shapely  hand  I  beg  of  thee ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Thou  shalt  not  clasp  my  hand,  nor  touch  my  robes  ! 

NURSE. 

1  implore  thee  at  thy  knees,  destroy  me  not ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

What  ?     If  thy  words  were  harmless,  as  thou  sayst  ? 

NURSE. 

My  tale,  0  son,  was  not  to  be  revealed. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Fair  words  are  fairer  uttered  in  the  throng  ! 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  215 

NURSE. 

0  child,  I  pray,  dishonor  not  thy  oath  J 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

My  tongue  has  sworn  ;  unsworn  my  mind  remains ! 

This  line  has  caused  Euripides  to  be  bitterly  cen- 
sured as  immoral  and  Jesuitical  by  his  enemies, 
from  Aristophanes  to  our  day.  But,  not  to  insist 
upon  the  unfairness  of  attributing  to  a  dramatist 
the  sentiments  of  his  characters,  Hippolytos  only 
means  that  he  has  been  tricked  into  a  promise  of 
silence,  which  he  would  not  have  given  had  he  sus- 
pected that  the  nurse  was  about  to  make  a  wicked 
and  traitorous  proposal.  He  thinks  himself  mor- 
ally free,  or  perhaps  even  bound,  to  reveal  to  The- 
seus the  true  character  of  his  wife.  Whether  this 
is  a  right  view  of  his  duty  may  be  a  debatable 
question  ;  but  it  should  certainly  be  remembered 
that  he  in  fact  refrains  from  telling  the  truth  even 
after  Phaidra's  death,  though  it  might  have  cleared 
his  own  character  and  rescued  him  from  exile  and 
death. 

NURSE. 

What  wilt  thou  do,  O  son  ?     Destroy  thy  friends  ? 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

1  scorn  the  name :  no  base  one  is  my  friend ! 

NURSE. 

Forgive  !     To  err  is  only  human,  child. 

This  is  the  last  arrow  in  her  quiver.  Hippolytos 
now  flings  her  from  him,  and  bursts  into  a  long  ti- 
rade against  women,  into  which  he  weaves  an  out- 
rageously unjust  view  of  Phaidra's  action  and  char- 


216  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

acter.     We  must  not  forget  that  his  proud-spirited 
young  stepmother  hears  every  word. 

HIFPOLYTOS. 

0  Zeus,  pray  why  —  a  specious  curse  for  men  — 
Hast  thou  set  women  in  the  light  of  day  ? 

For  if  thou  wouldst  engender  human-kind, 

Through   women    thou    shouldst  not  have   furnished 

them, 
But  in  thy  fanes  depositing  as  pay 
Or  gold  or  iron  or  the  weighty  bronze, 
Men  ought  to  buy  the  race  of  children,  each 
According  to  his  worth  ;  but  in  their  homes 
To  dwell  in  liberty,  from  women  free. 

That  woman  is  a  grievous  curse  is  clear : 
He  who  begets  and  breeds  her  adds  a  dower 
And  sends  her  forth,  to  rid  himself  of  ill ; 
And  he  who  takes  the  bane  into  his  house 
Delights  to  put  fair  ornaments  upon 
This  basest  idol,  decks  it  out  with  robes, 
And   squanders  —  wretched    man  !  —  his    household 

j°y! 

It  must  be  that,  delighted  to  have  gained 
Good  kinsmen,  he  endures  a  hateful  wife, 
Or,  winning  happy  wedlock,  useless  kin, 
He  finds  the  evil  overborne  by  good. 

Most  blest  his  lot  within  whose  home  is  set 
As  wife  a  harmless,  silly  nobody ! 

1  hate  a  clever  woman  :  in  my  house 
Be  no  one  sager  than  befits  her  sex. 
For  Kypris  oftener  stirs  up  villainy 
Within  the  clever  ;  but  the  guileless  wife 
Is  saved  from  folly  by  her  slender  wit ! 

No  servant  should  approach  the  wife's  abode. 


TEE  HIPPOLYTOS.  217 

But  speechless  animals  should  dwell  with  her, 
That  she  may  have  not  one  to  whom  to  speak, 
Nor  ever  hear  from  them  an  answering  voice. 
But  now,  the  wicked  weave  their  plots  within 
For  mischief,  and  their  servants  bear  them  forth ; 
Even  as  thou,  O  evil  one,  hast  come 
To  proffer  me  my  father's  sacred  rights  ! 

—  This  I  will  purge  away  with  running  brooks, 
Cleansing  my  ears.     Could  I  be  evil,  then, 
Who  hold  myself  defiled  to  hear  such  words  ? 
And,  woman,  know,  my  reverence  saves  thy  life. 
Were  I  not,  unawares,  so  bound  by  oaths, 
I  would  have  straightway  told  my  father  this, 

But  now,  while  Theseus  is  in  other  lands, 
I  leave  his  halls,  and  we  will  hold  our  peace ; 
But  coming  with  my  father  I  '11  behold 
How  thou  wilt  face  him,  —  and  thy  mistress  too  ! 
Thy  insolence  I  shall  know,  who  tasted  it. 
Perish  your  sex !     Nor  will  I  ever  tire 
Of  hating  women,  though  men  say  I  speak 
Of  nothing  else  :  for  base  they  always  are. 

Either  let  some  one  teach  them  self-restraint, 
Or  else  let  me  attack  them  evermore  ! 

When  the  prince  rushes  from  the  scene,  Phaidra 
believes  that  he  will  probably  tell  Theseus  this  ver- 
sion of  her  sin,  and  is  certain  that  he  will  soon  re- 
turn with  his  father,  watching'  her  from  aloof  with 
eyes  full  of  contempt  and  hate,  regarding  her  as  a 
shameless  wanton  and  accomplished  hypocrite.  We 
must  enter  as  far  as  possible  into  her  mingled  feel- 
ings, —  shame  for  her  passion,  indignation  at  Hip- 
poly  tos'  injustice,  despair  of  setting  herself  in  any 


218  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

fairer  light,  —  because  herein  lies  the  explanation 
of  what  many  critics  call  the  fatal  flaw  in  the  play  : 
Phaidra's  false  accusation  against  her  stepson  in 
the  letter  winch  her  husband  is  to  find  in  her  dead 
hand.  Long  before,  she  had  determined  to  put  an 
end  to  her  own  life.  Now  the  resolve  is  roused 
within  her  to  avenge  herself  on  the  haughty  young 
prince  who  has  both  disdained  and  slandered  her. 

Her  strongest  motive,  however,  is  the  desire  to 
leave  her  children  a  spotless  name  :  and  this  the 
poet  has  foreshadowed  in  one  of  his  finest  passages. 
For  myself,  I  find  that  her  letter  to  her  husband  is 
adequately  justified :  I  mean,  of  course,  not  mor- 
ally, but  dramatically  justified  ;  that  is,  is  no  more 
than  a  Greek  woidd  expect  a  high-spirited  Cretan 
princess  to  do  under  such  provocation. 

PHAIDEA. 

Evil-fated,  wholly  wretched, 
Are  the  destinies  of  women  ! 
Hope  is  lost  !  and  what  contrivance 
Now  may  loose  the  knot  of  words  ? 
We  are  punished  !  Earth  and  sunlight  I 
How  shall  I  escape  misfortune, 
How  my  woe  conceal,  0  friends  ? 
Who  of  gods  would  come,  or  mortals, 
Giving  aid  in  deeds  of  evil  ? 
Still  the  miseries  of  life, 
Not  to  be  avoided,  follow. 
Wretchedest  of  women  I! 

CHORUS. 

Alas,  't  is  done  !     Thy  servant's  artifice 
Has  failed,  O  lady,  and  affairs  go  ill. 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  219 

The  nurse,  who  had  bowed  in  silence  under  the 
torrent  of  Hippolytos'  angry  words,  now  rises 
slowly  and  meets  her  mistress'  eyes.  The  nurse  is, 
next  to  Aphrodite,  the  scapegoat  of  the  drama. 
She  has  been  made  odious  in  order  to  lighten  Phai- 
dra's  burden  of  guilt.  That  she  will  be  driven  out 
in  disgrace  and  heard  of  no  more  we  may  be  quite 
sure  ;  but  equally  sure  that  she  will  first  have  full 
opportunity  to  put  the  best  construction  upon  her 
own  acts,  and  will  take  with  her  some  share  of  our 
sympathy.  That  is  part  of  the  dignity  of  tragedy. 
Phaidra  addresses  her. 

PHAIDRA. 

0  wickedest  betrayer  of  thy  friends, 

What  hast  thou  done  !     May  Zeus  my  ancestor, 
Smiting  with  fire,  destroy  thee  utterly ! 
Did  I  not  bid  —  foreseeing  thy  design  — 
To  leave  unsaid  what  now  disgraces  me  ? 
Yet  thou  hast  spoken  !     So  I  can  no  more 
With  honor  die.     I  have  need  of  other  plans  ; 
For  he,  inflamed  in  heart  with  wrath,  will  tell 
His  sire  thy  evil  deeds  as  guilt  of  mine, 
And  fill  with  vilest  rumors  all  the  land. 
—  Accurst  be  thou,  and  all  who  eagerly 
Do  shameful  service  for  unwilling  friends. 

NURSE. 

My  lady,  thou  canst  blame  my  act  as  wrong, 
For  pain  has  overpowered  thy  judgment  now  : 
Yet  I  can  answer,  if  thou  wilt  but  hear. 

1  loved,  who  bred  thee  ;  I  but  sought  a  cure 
For  thy  disease,  and  found  not  what  I  would. 
Had  I  succeeded,  I  were  counted  wise  ;     \ 
For  by  success  and  failure  we  are  judged.  \ 


220  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

PHAIDRA. 

And  is  this  also  just  and  right  toward  me, 
To  wound  me,  and  then  to  justify  thyself  ? 

NURSE. 

We  waste  the  time  in  words.     I  was  unwise ; 
Yet  even  so  thou  mayst  be  saved,  my  child. 

PHAIDRA. 

Be  silent !   for  before  not  honorable 
Was  thy  advice,  and  evil  were  tby  deeds. 
But  get  thee  gone !     Take  counsel  for  thyself, 
For  I  shall  well  bestow  mine  own  affairs. 

The  nurse  departs,  and  Phaidra  now  addresses 
the  chorus : 

You,  noble  children  of  Troizenia, 

Concede  so  much  as  this  at  my  behest : 

To  veil  in  silence  what  you  here  have  heard. 

CHORUS. 

I  swear  by  Artemis,  dread  child  of  Zeus, 
None  of  thy  sorrows  ever  to  reveal. 

PHAIDRA. 

('T  is  nobly  said  !     And  I,  revolving  all, 
Find  in  my  miseries  but  one  recourse 
To  leave  my  children  to  an  honored  life, 
And  aid  myself  in  this  calamity  ; 
For  I  will  never  shame  my  Cretan  home, 
Nor  meet  the  face  of  Theseus,  having  wrought 
Disgraceful  deeds,  to  save  my  single  life. 

CHORUS. 

What  desperate  harm  art  thou  about  to  do  ? 

PHAIDRA. 

To  die  !     But  how,  I  will  deliberate. 


THE  HIPrOLYTOS.  221 

CHORUS. 

Speak  not  such  words  ! 

PHAIDRA. 

Do  thou  advise  me  well. 
But  yet  to  Kypris,  who  destroys  me,  I 
Will  give  delight  by  leaving  life  to-day, 
And  shall  be  overcome  by  bitter  love. 
But  to  that  other  I  will  prove  a  curse 
In  death,  that  he  may  in  my  misery  learn 
Not  to  be  haughty  :  he  shall  share  with  me 
This  trouble,  which  may  teach  him  self-restraint. 

With  this  dark  threat  against  Hippolytos,  the 
queen  departs  into  the  palace.  The  Episode  closes, 
and  we  have  reached  the  central  point  of  the  play. 
It  is  evident  that  Phaidra  will  be  seen  no  more 
alive.  While  in  the  first  two  Episodes  she  has 
been  suffering  and  almost  passive,  her  last  words 
reveal  to  us  that  in  the  scenes  to  come  she  will 
exert,  in  death,  a  fatal  influence  at  least  upon  Hip- 
polytos' destiny. 

At  this  point  the  poet  has  set  a  lyric  ode  of  great 
beauty,  in  which  the  first  pair  of  strophes,  elabo- 
rated upon  the  theme  "  Would  we  could  flee  afar 
from  all  the  horrors  we  foresee,"  relieve  the  thoughts 
of  the  listener,  and  the  last  two  recall  our  atten- 
tion gradually  more  and  more  closely  to  the  subject 
of  the  drama. 

SECOND  STASIMON. 

CHORUS. 

Oh  for  some  retreat  afar  sequestered  ! 
May  some  god  into  a  bird 


222  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Flitting  'mid  the  winged  throng  transform  me  ! 

Where  the  Adriatic's  wave 
Breaks  upon  the  shore  I  fain  would  hasten  ; 

Or  to  the  Eridanos, 

Where  into  the  purple  tide, 

Mourning  over  Phaethon, 

Evermore  the  wretched  maidens 

Drop  their  amber-gleaming  tears. 

Gladly  woxdd  I  seek  the  fertile  shore-land 

Of  Hesperian  minstrelsy, 
Where  the  sea-lord  over  purple  waters 

Bars  the  way  of  mariners, 
Setting  there,  to  be  upheld  by  Atlas, 

Heaven's  holy  boundary. 

There  ambros  ia  I  foil  nta  ins  flow 

From  the  place  where  Zeus  abides, 

And  the  sacred  land  of  plenty 

Gives  delight  unto  the  gods. 

0  thou  white-winged  Cretan  vessel, 
That  across  the  eversmiting 
Briny  billow  of  the  ocean 

Hither  hast  conveyed  my  queen, 
From  her  home  of  royal  splendor, 

Wretched  in  her  wedded  bliss  ! 
For  to  both  of  evil  omen 

Surely,  or  at  least  for  Crete, 
Thou  to  glorious  Athens  flitted, 
Where  in  the  Munychian  harbor 
They  unbound  their  twisted  cables 

And  set  foot  upon  the  shore. 


THE  UIPPOLYTOS.  223 

Therefore  is  she  broken-hearted, 
Cursed  with  an  unholy  passion 
By  the  might  of  Aphrodite. 

Wholly  overivhelmed  by  tvoe, 
In  the  chamber  of  her  nuptials, 

Fitted  to  her  snoivy  neck. 
She  will  hang  the  cord  suspended, 

Showing  thus  her  reverence 
For  the  god  by  men  detested, 
Eager  most  for  reputation, 
And  releasing  so  her  sjiirit 
From  the  love  that  brought  her  pain. 
The   opening  portion   of    the  Third  Episode  is 
remarkably  rapid  in  movement  and  full  of  action. 
As   in  the  former  scene,  the    Stasimon   is   seem- 
ingly interrupted  :  this  time  by  a  servant  within  the 
palace. 

THIRD  EPISODE. 

servant  (within). 
Halloa !     Halloa  ! 
Run  hither  all  who  are  about  the  house, 
For  here  is  hanging  Theseus'  royal  wife  ! 

CHORDS  (from  the  orchestra). 
Alas  !  the  deed  is  done  !     She  is  no  more, 
The  queen,  who  to  the  high-hung  noose  is  hound ! 

servant  (within). 
Will  ye  not  hasten  ?     Some  one  bring  a  knife, 
That  we  may  loosen  from  her  neck  the  bond. 

CHORUS. 

What  may  we  do  ?     Ought  we  to  enter,  friends, 
And  from  the  tight-drawn  noose  release  the  queen  ? 

Another  voice  among  the  matrons  replies. 


224  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

SEMICHOROS. 

Nay,  why  ?     Ave  not  the  youthful  servants  there  ? 
In  undue  forwardness  no  safety  lies. 

Here    again    the  dramatist  is  offering  a  plausible 
excuse  for  the  inactivity  of  the  chorus. 
servant  (icithin). 

Lay  out  and  straighten  the  most  wretched  corpse. 

A  sad  home-keeping  for  my  lord  is  this  ! 

SEMICHORUS. 

The  unhappy  wife  has  perished,  as  I  hear  : 
For  they  already  lay  her  out  as  dead. 

At  this  crisis  Theseus  suddenly  enters,  returning 
unheralded  from  a  foreign  land,  and  wearing  a  gar- 
land in  token  of  his  happy  home-coming.  He  ad- 
dresses the  chorus  in  a  tone  of  foreboding. 

THESEUS. 

What  is  this  cry,  0  women,  in  the  halls  ? 
The  servants'  wail  came  to  me  heavily ; 
Nor  does  the  palace  open  wide  its  gates 
And  as  a  sacred  envoy  welcome  me. 
Has  any  change  to  aged  Pittheus  come  ? 
Advanced  already  is  his  life,  and  yet 
By  us  lamented  he  would  leave  his  home. 

CHORUS. 

Thy  present  loss  does  not  concern  the  old, 
Theseus  :  the  young  who  die  will  give  thee  pain. 

THESEUS. 

Oh,  am  I  of  my  children's  life  bereft  ? 

CHORUS. 

They  live.    Their  mother's  death  will  grieve  thee  sore. 

THESEUS. 

What  sayst  thou  ?      She  is  dead  ?     Through  what  mis- 
chance ? 


TEE  H1PP0LYT0S.  225 

CHOKUS. 

She  fastened  to  her  neck  a  hanging  noose. 

THESEUS. 

By  sorrow  paralyzed  ?     Or  what  hefell  ? 

CHORUS. 

This  much  we  know,  O  Theseus  :  even  now 
Unto  thy  home,  to  mourn  thy  woes,  I  come. 

THESEUS. 

Alas !      Why  then  with  plaited  leaves  is  crowned 
My  head,  who  am  a  messenger  accurst  ? 

[Tears  off  his  chaplet  and  casts  it  away. 
Undo  the  fastenings,  servants,  of  the  gates, 
And  draw  the  bolts,  that  I  this  wretched  sight 
May  see  ;  my  wife,  who  dying  slays  me  too. 

The  gates  are  thrown  open,  and  Phaidra  is  seen 
lying-  dead  within  the  palace. 

Here  begins  the  Kommos,  a  lament  for  the  dead, 
half -lyrical,  half -recitative,  uttered  partly  by  the 
king,  partly  by  the  chorus.  A  similar  passage  in 
the  Alkestis  will  be  remembered. 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  most  wretched  in  thy  miseries  ! 

Thou  hast  suffered  !    Thou  hast  done 
A  deed  that  wholly  overwhelms  this  house  ! 

0  the  desperate  act  !    Thou  diest 

By  a  violent  death  unhallowed, 

Through  thine  own  unhappy  hand  ! 

Who  has  darkened  so  thy  life  ? 

THESEUS. 

Woe  is  me  !     These  sufferings 
Bitterest  of  my  sorroxcs  are  ! 
O  Fortune,  heavy  art  thou  to  me  and  mine ! 


226  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

This  awful  stain  from  some  avenging  power 

Makes  our  life  unlivable. 

I  behold  a  sea  of  troubles 
So  mighty  I  can  never  more  escape, 
Nor  ride  the  billows  of  calamity. 

Brief  of  days,  unhappy  woman, 

In  what  ivords  or  how  may  I 

Rightly  tell  thy  ivretched  lot  ? 
For  as  a  bird  thou  'rt  vanished  from  my  hands, 
Rushing  to  Hades  with  impetuous  haste  ! 

In  the  bas  -  reliefs  upon  ancient  Athenian  tomb- 
stones we  frequently  see  a  bird  held  in  the  hands  : 
perhaps  as  an  emblem  of  the  flitting  soul. 

Wretched  is  our  woe,  alas  ! 

Out  of  some  far  distant  source 

Falls  on  me  divine  disaster, 

Tlirough  the  sins  of  one  of  old. 

These  last  lines  are  like  a  faint  dying  echo  of 
that  living  belief  in  the  working  out  of  the  ances- 
tral  curse,  which  adds  so  much  of  awe  and  horror 
to  the  iEschylean  drama. 

CHORUS. 

This  grief  comes  not,  O  king,  to  thee  alone, 
But  many  mourn  like  thee  as  noble  wife. 

THESEUS. 

In  the  gloom  beneath  the  earth 

Gladly  I  woidd  make  my  home, 

Dying  in  my  misery, 
Bereft  of  thy  most  dear  companionship  ; 
Since  me  thou  slayest  rather  than  thyself. 

Who  can  tell  me  ivhence  this  fate 

Came  to  smite  thy  heart,  my  wife  ? 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  227 

Can  any  tell  the  story,  or  does  my  hall 
Shelter  in  vain  my  servants'  useless  horde  ? 

Woe  is  me  because  of  thee  ! 

What  a  sorrow  I  have  seen, 
Not  to  be  borne  or  uttered :  I  am  slain  : 
My  children  orphaned  :  desolate  my  home. 

CHORUS. 

Thou  art  gone  !  the  dearest,  noblest 

Of  the  women  whom  the  sun 

In  his  radiance  beholds, 

Or  the  starry  moon  at  night! 

For  thy  fate  my  eyes  with  tears 

Overflow  —  and,  I  have  shuddered 

Long  at  sorrows  yet  to  come  ! 

The  last  words  are  prophetic  of  further  sorrow^ 
and  as  Theseus  approaches  his  wife  he  sees  the 
fatal  tablet  in  her  hand. 

THESEUS. 

Ah !     Ah ! 
What  is  this  tablet,  pray,  to  her  dear  hand 
Attached  ?     Will  this  reveal  some  farther  news  ? 
Has  my  poor  wife  recorded  her  desires 
Touching  my  marriage,  or  our  children's  lot  ? 
Be  cheered,  unhappy  one  !    for  Theseus'  bed 
And  palace  never  wife  shall  enter  more. 
Surely  the  impress  of  the  golden  seal 
Of  her  who  lives  no  longer  greets  my  eyes. 
Let  me  unwind  the  well-sealed  cord,  and  read 
What  this  her  tablet  fain  would  say  to  me. 

[Cuts  the  cord  and  reads. 

While  Theseus  reads,  the  chorus,  foreseeing  that 
the  letter  contains  an  accusation  intended  to  de- 
stroy Hippolytos,  exclaims  : 


228  THREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

CHORUS. 

Woe  is  me!     In  quick  succession 
This  new  grief  a  god  imposes! 
My  allotted  life  is  hateful 
Now  for.  me  to  undergo, 
Since  already  dead,  not  living, 
I  may  call  my  master's  race. 

Then    turning    with    imploring   hands   to    Aphro- 
dite's image  they  utter  a  vain  petition. 

Divine  one,  if  it  may  be,  hear  my  prayer, 

And  ruin  not  this  house :  for  through  some  sign 

I,  like  a  prophet,  see  the  coming  woe. 

THESEUS. 

O  what  a  sorrow  added  to  my  grief, 

Not  to  be  borne  nor  hid !     Ah  wretched  me  ! 

CHORUS. 

What  is  it  ?     Tell,  if  I  may  share  thy  pain. 

THESEUS. 

Fearfid  things  the  tablet  cries  aloud  ! 
How  may  I  escape  the  weight  of  sorrow  ? 
Utterly  I  perish  !     Such  a  ivail 
In  these  letters  I  behold  recorded  ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas! 
A  word  that  heralds  woe  thou  utterest ! 

THESEUS. 

By  my  lips  confined  no  longer 
Will  I  hold  this  ivrong,  so  deadly, 
Hard  to  tell  !     Alas  my  city  ! 

Hippolytos  has  dared  assail  my  wife, 

Not  reverencing  the  awful  eye  of  Zeus  ! 

And  with  awful  haste  follows  the  irrevocable  prayer 
to  Poseidon. 


THE  EIPPOLYTOS.  229 


) 


But  0  my  sire  Poseidon,  since  of  old 
Thou  gavest  me  three  wishes,  now,  for  one, 
Destroy  my  son,  and  may  he  not  escape 
This  day,  if  thou  dost  truly  grant  my  prayers. 

CHORUS. 

Recall  thy  wish,  0  monarch,  by  the  gods  ! 

For  thou  wilt  learn,  thou  errest.     Hear  my  words  ! 

THESEUS. 

Not  so  !     And  I  besides  will  exile  him. 

By  one  of  these  two  fates  shall  he  be  struck : 

Either  Poseidon,  hearkening  to  my  prayer, 

Will  send  him  slain  to  Hades'  realm,  or  else 

Wandering  as  an  outcast  from  this  land 

On  foreign  earth  he  '11  spend  a  wretched  life. 

chorus. 
And  surely  hither  comes  betimes  thy  son, 
Hippolytos.     Dismiss  thy  evil  wrath, 
King  Theseus  :  seek  the  welfare  of  thy  race. 

The  term  "  tragic  irony  "  is  almost  too  hackneyed 
for  repetition.  But  I  cannot  refrain  from  remark- 
ing upon  the  contrast  between  the  young  prince's 
tender  words  of  sympathy,  his  calm  trust  in  his 
father's  love,  and  the  imprecations  we  have  just 
heard  uttered  against  him. 

Enter  Hippolytos. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Hearing  thy  outcry,  father,  I  am  come 

In  haste ;  but  yet  the  cause  of  thy  lament 

I  know  not,  and  would  gladly  learn  from  thee. 

[Seeing  Phaidra. 
0  what  a  fearful  sight  !     I  see  thy  wife 
Lies  dead,  ray  father.     This  is  wondrous  strange. 
She  whom  I  left  but  now, 


230  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

The  words  of  innocence,  like  Desdemona's,  seem 
to  fasten  his  gnilt  upon  him  the  more  surely ! 

who  gazed  upon 
This  sunshine  hut  a  little  time  ago  ! 
Pray  what  befell  her  ?     How  was  she  destroyed  ? 
Father,  't  is  my  desire  to  know  from  thee. 
—  Thou  'rt  silent  ?     Silence  is  not  well  in  grief. 
The  heart  that  longs  to  know  of  all  our  haps 
Is  not  less  eager  in  our  evil  days. 
From  us  who  are  thy  friends,  and  more  than  friends, 
It  is  not  just  to  hide  calamity. 

Theseus,  turning  away  from  his  son,  cries  out : 

THESEUS- 

0  foolish,  ever-erring  race  of  men  ! 
Why  is  it  that  ye  teach  ten  thousand  arts, 
And  everything  discover  or  devise, 

But  this  alone  ye  know  not,  hunt  not  out : 
To  train  to  wisdom  those  who  have  not  sense  ? 

Hippolytos  is  perplexed  at  his  father's  words,  but 
makes  a  gentle  reply. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

A  mighty  sophist  thou  describest,  who 

Could  force  to  wisdom  those  who  are  not  wise  ! 

But,  —  for  it  is  not  time  for  subtle  words,  — 

1  fear  thy  tongue  in  trouble  has  trangressed. 

THESEUS. 

Ah,  mortals  should  have  had  a  certain  test 
For  friends,  that  would  reveal  to  us  their  souls, 
Whoever  is  sincere,  or  no  true  friend. 
Or  else  all  men  should  have  a  twofold  voice, 
One  honest,  and  the  other  as  were  fit, 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  231 

And  so  the  one  which  uttered  evil  thoughts, 
Refuted  hy  the  good,  could  not  deceive. 

Hippolytos  perceives,  rather  from  his  father's  grim 
eyes  and  tones,  than  from  his  words,  that  there  is 
some  grave  misunderstanding. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Why !  has  some  kinsman  slandered  me  to  thee, 
And  are  we  suffering  in  our  innocence  ?  — 
I  stand  amazed  :  for  thy  strange  utterances, 
That  wander  from  thy  thoughts,  bewilder  me. 

THESEUS. 

Ah  me  !  how  far  shall  mortal  daring  go  ? 
What  bound  be  set  to  reckless  insolence  ? 
If  it  increase  throughout  our  human  life, 
And  if  the  later  man  be  wickeder 
Than  was  the  former,  to  our  earth  the  gods 
Must  add  another,  making  room  for  it ! 

Look  on  this  youth,  who,  though  by  me  begot, 
Hath  done  me  wrong ;  and  who  by  her  who  died 
Is  clearly  proved  the  basest  of  mankind. 
But  show  thy  face,  —  since  thou  hast  entered  on 
This  villany,  —  before  thy  father  here. 

The  following  words  sketch  with  singular  dis- 
tinctness the  outlines  of  two  characters  at  once, 
and  show  that  there  has  been  heretofore  natural 
affection,  no  doubt,  but  little  of  deeper  sympatlry, 
between  the  bluff  rude  soldier-king,  always  ready 
for  hard  blows  or  reckless  love-making,  and  the 
young  prince,  who  is  an  ascetic,  a  vegetarian,  al- 
most a  recluse,  a  mystic  deeply  read  in  the  occult 
books  of  the  Orphic  poetry  and  philosophy. 


232  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Thou  dwellest  with  the  gods,  as  more  than  man  ? 
Thou  art  unstained  with  sin,  and  virtuous  ? 
I  cannot  be  beguiled  by  vaunts  of  thine 
To  credit  in  the  gods  such  ignorance. 
Make  then  thy  boasts,  and  with  thy  lifeless  food 
Play  thou  the  huckster ;  Orpheus  be  thy  king 
Of  revels  :  honor  countless  misty  scrolls. 
At  least  thou  art  detected  !     Such  as  thou 
I  bid  all  men  to  shun.     With  holy  words 
Ye  ply  the  hunt,  devising  shameful  deeds. 

Since  she  is  dead,  thou  trustest  to  escape  ? 
'T  is  this  convicts  thee  most  of  all,  thou  wretch  ! 
What  oath,  what  reasoning,  could  be  mightier 
Than  she,  and  clear  thee  from  this  charge  ?     Thou  'It 

say 
That  she  abhorred  thee  ?  that  't  is  natural 
The  bastard  should  be  foe  of  lawful  sons  ? 
She  were  a  foolish  trafficker  in  life, 
To  lose  that  dearest  thing  for  hate  of  thee  ! 

Or  say  this  folly  is  not  found  in  men, 
But  only  in  women  ?     Nay,  I  know  young  men 
Are  nowise  more  secure  than  women  are, 
When  Kypris  comes  to  stir  the  soul  of  youth  ;  — 
And  then  their  sex  assists  them  with  its  aid. 

—  Why,  since  her  corpse,  most  sure  of  witnesses, 
Is  here,  do  I  contend  against  thy  words  ? 
Begone  at  once  to  exile  from  this  land. 
Approach  not  Athens  founded  by  the  gods, 
Nor  any  confines  subject  to  my  spear. 
If  I  submit  to  be  so  wronged  by  thee, 
No  more  shall  Isthmian  Sinis  testify 
I  slew  him,  but  that  I  made  empty  boast ; 
And  the  sea-washed  Skironian  rocks  no  more 
Will  tell  how  harsh  I  was  to  evil  men. 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  233 

The  allusions   are   to   notorious  robbers  and  bri- 
gands of  whom  Theseus  had  rid  the  land. 

CHORUS. 

Fortunate  I  would  call  no  mortal  man  : 
For  what  was  foremost  now  is  overturned. 

•  Hippolytos'  reply  brings  him  most  vividly  before 
our  eyes  as  the  ideal  of  youthful  purity  and  athletic 
beauty.  He  stands  the  preeminent  and  noblest 
figure  of  a  drama  which  contains  not  one  weak  or 
cowardly  character.  He  is  in  the  highest  sense 
statuesque,  full  of  exultant  enjoyment  of  life,  yet 
courageous  and  steadfast  when  facing  agony  and 
death. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Father,  the  wrath  and  fury  of  thy  heart 

Are  fearful :  yet  thy  act,  which  seems  but  right, 

If  closer  scrutinized  is  most  unjust. 

Untrained  am  I  to  speak  before  a  throng, 
But  less  unskilled  among  a  few,  my  peers. 
And  justly  :  whom  the  wise  regard  as  dull, 
Address  more  pleasingly  the  vulgar  crowd. 

Yet  since  disaster  now  has  come,  perforce 
I  loose  my  tongue  :  and  I  begin  with  that 
Wherewith  thou  first  assailed  me,  hoping  so 
Without  defense  to  crush  me.     Thou  dost  see 
The  sun  and  earth  ?     Between  them  stands  no  man, 
Though  thou  deny  it,  chaster  than  myself. 

For  first,  I  duly  reverence  the  gods, 
And  hold  to  friends  who  seek  not  to  do  wrong, 
But  are  ashamed  to  tell  of  evil  acts, 
Or  aid  their  comrades  in  disgraceful  deeds. 
Companions  I  deride  not ;  whether  friends 
Be  near  or  absent.  I  am  still  the  same. 


234      THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Of  what  thou  wouldst  convict  me,  I  am  pure. 
My  body  yet  is  innocent  of  love. 
I  know  it  not,  except  as  told  in  tales, 
Or  seen  in  pictures,  —  nor  do  I  desire 
To  gaze  on  them,  but  keep  a  virgin  soul. 

My  virtue,  it  may  be,  wins  not  thy  belief : 
Then  must  thou  show,  by  what  I  was  beguiled. 
Her  form,  perchance,  was  of  all  woman-kind 
The  fairest  ?     Did  I  hope  to  rule  thy  house, 
Winning  a  love  that  brought  me  dower  besides  ? 
—  I  must  have  been  a  dolt,  bereft  of  sense  ! 

Or  because  power  is  pleasant  ?     To  the  wise 
It  is  not  so,  for  undivided  sway 
Corrupts  the  souls  of  those  who  find  it  sweet. 
I  would  desire  in  the  Hellenic  games 
To  win  the  foremost :  second  in  the  state 
To  live  a  prosperous  life,  with  noblest  friends. 
Thus  action  still  is  free,  —  and  safety  has 
A  charm  more  mighty  than  tyrannic  power. 

One  word  alone  of  mine  remains  unsaid. 
Had  I  a  single  witness  like  myself, 
And  were  she  living  while  I  plead  my  cause, 
Thou  wouldst  detect  indeed  the  guilty  ones. 
But  now  by  Zeus  the  god  of  oaths,  and  earth, 
I  swear  to  thee  I  never  touched  thy  wife, 
Nor  wished  it :  no,  nor  ever  thought  of  it. 
Inglorious,  nameless,  homeless  may  I  perish, 
Without  a  country,  wandering  the  earth, 
May  neither  land  nor  sea  receive  my  bones 
In  death,  if  I  have  been  a  sinful  man ! 

If  she  in  terror  cast  her  life  away, 
I  know  not.     More  I  have  no  right  to  say. 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  235 

She  is  held  virtuous  who  was  not  so, 
And  we  who  are  have  little  joy  of  it. 

I  have  a  hearty  dislike  for  the  acuteness,  shown 
especially  by  German  scholars,  in  detecting  interpo- 
lated lines.  But  this  last  couplet  certainly  seems 
out  of  harmony  with  Hippolytos'  steadfast  silence 
concerning  Phaidra's  guilty  advances.  If  it  is  not 
to  be  regarded  as  interpolated,  one  is  tempted  to 
an  expedient  still  more  questionable  and  unusual, 
namely,  to  suggest  that  it  may  be  an  aside. 

CHORUS. 

Thou  utterest  a  defense  which  meets  the  charge, 
Adding  an  oath  to  Heaven,  no  trivial  pledge. 

THESEUS. 

Is  not  this,  pray,  a  conjurer  and  knave, 
Who  trusts  to  overcome  by  gentleness 
The  spirit  of  the  parent  he  disgraced  ! 

But  Hippolytos  faces  his  enraged  father  with  un- 
flinching courage.  We  can  imagine  the  family 
likeness  in  the  two  men  coming  out  more  strongly 
as  they  glare  at  each  other  with  parted  lips  and 
flushed  cheeks. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Herein,  my  sire,  I  marvel  much  at  thee  ; 
If  I  had  been  thy  father,  thou  my  son, 


Instead  of  exile  I  had  struck  thee  dead, 
If  thou  hadst  dared  lay  hand  upon  my  wife 


\ 


Thy  words  befit  thee  !     Not  so  shalt  thou  die, 
As  thou  hast  issued  judgment  on  thyself. 


236  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Quick  death  is  easiest  for  a  wretched  man. 
A  wandering  exile  from  the  fatherland, 
'Mid  strangers  thou  shalt  drag  a  woful  life. 
—  Such  is  the  recompense  of  impious  men. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Alas  !  What  wilt  thou  do  ?     The  informer,  Time, 
Thou  'It  not  accept,  hut  drive  me  from  the  land  ? 

The  phrase  reminds  us  of  Pindar's  noble  utterance 
of  the  same  idea : 

"  But  the  years  that  are  to  be 
Are  the  wisest  witnesses." 

THESEUS. 

Beyond  the  sea  and  the  Atlantic  bounds, 
Had  I  the  power,  I  do  abhor  thee  so ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Not  testing  oath  or  pledge  or  prophet's  words, 
From  thy  domain  untried  thou  'It  banish  me  ? 

THESEUS. 

This  tablet,  though  it  be  no  oracle, 

Convicts  thee  !     To  the  flitting  birds  that  pass 

Above  our  heads  I  bid  a  long  farewell ! 
This    contemptuous    impiety   of    Theseus   will    of 
course  draw  down  upon  him  the  fiercer  wrath  of 
the  gods. 

Hippolytos  is  strongly  tempted  to  break  silence. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Ye  gods,  why  do  I  not  unseal  my  lips, 
Who  am  destroyed  by  you  whom  I  revere  ? 
Nay,  for  I  should  not  even  so  persuade 
Those  whom  I  must,  but  break  my  oath  in  vain. 

THESEUS. 

Well,  well !     Thy  piety  will  be  my  death ! 

Wilt  thou  not  straightway  get  thee  from  the  land  ? 


TEE  EIPPOLYTOS.  237 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Ah  !     Whither  shall  I  turn  ?     What  friend's  abode 
Am  I  to  enter,  exiled  on  this  charge  ? 

THESEUS. 

To  him,  that  in  corrupters  of  men's  wives 
Delights,  and  harbors  those  who  share  his  crimes  ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Oh  this  is  nigh  to  tears,  and  cuts  my  heart, 
That  I  seem  base,  and  thou  believest  it ! 

THESEUS. 

For  grief  —  and  forethought  —  't  was  the  fitting  time 
When  thou  didst  dare  assail  thy  father's  wife  ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Ye  halls,  I  would  that  ye  could  utter  sounds, 
And  witness  if  I  be  a  sinful  man  ! 

THESEUS. 

Thou  'rt  wise  to  flee  to  voiceless  witnesses  : 

But  yet  thy  deed,  though  speechless,  proves  thee  base. 

As  Hippolytos  stands  meditating  on  his  own  home- 
less and  friendless  fate,  a  wish  strangely  weird  rises 
to  his  lips. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Would  I  could  stand  and  gaze  in  mine  own  face, 
That  I  might  mourn  the  wrongs  I  undergo  ! 

THESEUS. 

Self-worship  is  indeed  far  more  thy  wont, 
Than  honoring  parents  by  a  righteous  life  ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

O  hapless  mother  !     O  my  wretched  birth  ! 
Be  never  friend  of  mine  a  bastard  born  ! 

THESEUS. 

Will  ye  not  drag  him  forth,  my  slaves  ?     Long  since 
Did  ye  not  hear  me  bidding  him  begone  ? 


238  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

But  Hippolytos  is  roused  to  fury  at  the  thought 
of  indignity  from  menial  hands,  and  as  the  attend- 
ants advance  upon  him  exclaims  : 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

He  '11  rue  it  surely  who  lays  hand  on  me  ! 

Then  to  his  father,  with  princely  and  filial  humility : 
Thyself,  if  't  is  thy  pleasure,  cast  me  forth. 

THESEUS. 

That  will  I  do,  if  thou  obey  me  not. 
I  feel  no  pity  for  thy  banishment. 

And  Theseus  actually  lays  hand  upon  him,  as  if 
to  push  him  from  the  land,  an  almost  unparalleled 
act  of  violence  upon  the  tragic  stage.  This  final 
insult  convinces  the  prince  that  there  is  indeed  no 
hope  of  justice. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

It  must  be  so,  it  seems.     Alas  for  me, 
Who  know,  but  yet  may  not  reveal,  the  truth ! 
Daughter  of  Leto,  dearest  of  the  gods, 
Comrade  in  chase  and  rest,  an  exiled  man 
Am  I  from  glorious  Athens.     Fare  ye  well, 
Erechtheus'  land  and  town.     Troizenian  plain, 
How  happily  may  youth  be  spent  in  thee ! 
Farewell !      I  shall  not  hail  nor  see  thee  more  ! 

Youths  who  were  my  companions  in  this  land, 
Give  me  your  greetings,  and  escort  me  forth. 
For  you  shall  never  see  another  man 
More  chaste,  although  my  sire  believes  it  not. 

And  to  the  astonishment  of  the  king,  many  ac- 
tually step  forth  even  from  the  royal  suite,  to  follow 
their  beloved  young  comrade  into  exile. 


THE  I1IPP0LYT0S.  239 

A  moment  later  the  palace-doors  close,  conceal- 
in--  Theseus,  who  was  standing  beside  his  wife. 
The  opening  lines  of  the  choral  ode  intimate  that 
faith  in  the  justice  of  the  gods  is  rudely  shaken  by 
the  sufferings  of  the  innocent. 

THIRD  STASIMON. 

CHORCS. 

Truly  the  anxious  attention  bestowed  by  the  gods  upon 
mortals, 
When  it  recurs  to  my  mind,  greatly  asstcages  my 
grief: 
Yet  am  I  quickly  bereft  of  the  hope  and  conviction  I 
cherished, 
Pondering  over  the  deeds,  over  the  fortunes  of  men 
Change  is  but  followed  by  change,  in  our  erring  mortal 
existence. 


al   J 


Oh  that  Heavenly  Fate,  responding  to  prayer,  would 
accord  us 
Fortune  to  happiness  joined,  courage  undaunted  by 
pain. 
May  my  repute  be  neither  exceedingly  great  nor  igno- 
ble. 
Still  with  the   changing   day  easily  changing  my 
ways, 
May  I  forever  enjoy  a  life  of  prosperous  fortune. 

Clear  no  more  are  my  thoughts,  when  I  see  this  trouble 
unhoped-for, 

See  the  illustrious  star  of  Athena 
Driven  before  the  paternal  wrath  to  a  far  habitation  ! 

O  ye  sands  on  the  shore  of  the  city  ! 


240  THREE   DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

0  ye  glades  in  which,  attendant  on  holy  Dictynna, 
Once  with  his  hounds  fleet-footed  he  hunted  ! 

Never  again  shalt  thou  yoke   and  guide  thy  coursers 
Venetian 
Over  the  track  that  encircles  Limna. 
Sleepless  once  was  the  Muse  by  the  lyre  in  the  halls  of 

thy  fathers  ; 
Now  is  she  silent  ;  and  stript  of  their  garlands 
Lie  in  the  long  deep  grass  the  retreats  of  the  daughter 
of  Leto. 
Maidens  contend  not  for  thee  in  thy  exile. 

1  with  my  tears  for  thy  sorroivs  will  share  in  thy  des- 

tiny hapless. 
Ah !    Thy  mother,  how   wretched  I  in   vain  were   the 

pangs  of  her  travail ! 
Frenzied  am  I  of  the  gods  !     Ye  close-linked  Graces, 

ah,  wherefore 
Forth  from  this  his  home,  and  out  of  the  land  of  his 

fathers, 
Send  ye  a  youth,  ill-fated,  ivho  nowise  of  crime   has 

been  guilty  ? 

This  choral  ode  is  of  unusual  length,  no  doubt 
in  order  that  a  space  of  time  may  elapse  somewhat 
proportionate  to  the  events  to  be  narrated  ;  for  the 
following  Episode  now  begins  with  an  announce- 
ment by  one  of  the  chorus. 

FOURTH  EPISODE. 

CHORUS. 

Hippolytos'  servant  surely  I  descry 

Hastening  with  gloomy  visage  toward  this  house. 


THE  BIPPOLYTOS.  241 

And  the  messenger,  entering  in  haste,  inquires  : 

MESSENGER. 

Whither,  O  women,  may  I  go  to  seek 

Your  monarch  Theseus  ?     Pray  you,  if  you  know, 

Reveal  to  me.     Is  he  within  his  halls  ? 

CHORUS. 

Behold  him  here,  just  issuing  from  his  home. 
Theseus  now  appears  from  the  palace. 

MESSENGER. 

Theseus,  I  bear  thee  tidings  which  should  bring 
Deep  grief  to  thee  and  all  who  bide  within 
The  Athenian  city  or  Troizenia's  bounds. 

THESEUS. 

What  is  it  ?     Has  some  strange  calamity 
Fallen  upon  the  pair  of  neighbor  towns  ? 

MESSENGER. 

Hippolytos  is  no  more,  —  so  one  may  say  :    \ 
He  sees  the  light  but  from  the  verge  of  life.    N 

Even  now  Theseus  shows  no  feeling. 

THESEUS. 

Who  slew  him  ?     Had  he  come  to  strife  with  one 
Whose  wife  he  had  assaulted,  like  his  sire's  ? 

MESSENGER. 

He  was  destroyed  by  his  own  chariot-wheels, 
And  curses  uttered  from  thy  lips,  to  him 
Who  rules  the  waves,  thy  sire,  against  thy  son. 

Theseus  almost  rejoices  at  this  decisive  proof  that 
he  is  himself  indeed  the  son  of  the  sea-god. 

THESEUS. 

Ye  gods,  and  thou  Poseidon,  who  art  proved 
Indeed  my  father,  hearkening  to  my  prayer ! 


242  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Then  the  king  turns  again  upon  the  messenger : 

—  How  died  he  ?     Tell  !      How  then  did  Justice's 

stroke 
Fall  upon  him  who  had  dishonored  me  ? 

MESSENGER. 

We,  near  the  seashore,  where  it  greets  the  waves, 
Were  currying  with  combs  our  horses'  manes, 
Lamenting  ;  for  the  message  came  to  us 
That  in  this  land  Hippolytos  should  set  foot 
No  more,  to  wretched  exile  sent  by  thee. 
He,  also,  with  the  self-same  tale  of  tears, 
Came  to  us  on  the  beach,  and  following  him 
A  myriad  throng  of  comrades  marched  along. 
After  a  time  he  ceased  to  weep,  and  said  : 

"  Why  am  I  frenzied  thus  ?     I  must  obey 
My  father  :  harness  to  the  car  my  steeds, 
O  slaves  ;  for  now  this  city  is  mine  no  more." 
And  thereupon  did  every  man  make  haste. 
Quicker  than  one  could  speak,  we  set  the  steeds, 
All  fully  harnessed,  at  their  master's  side. 
Then  from  the  chariot-rail  he  seized  the  reins, 
Upon  the  foot-board  set  his  booted  feet ; 
And  first,  with  hands  upraised  to  heaven,  he  said : 

\"  Zeus,  may  I  five  no  more,  if  I  am  base  ! 

\    But  may  my  sire  know  how  he  does  me  wrong, 

\  Whether  I  lie  in  death,  or  see  the  light." 
With  that  he  took  the  goad  in  hand,  and  urged 
The  colts  ;  and  we  attendants  by  his  car 
Followed,  beside  our  lord,  along  the  road 
Toward  Argos  and  to  Epidauria. 

When  we  had  entered  the  deserted  land, 
There  was  a  coast  that  lay  beyond  this  realm, 
Bordering  already  the  Saronic  gulf. 


THE  HIPPOLYTGS.  243 

There,  like  Zeus'  thunder,  from  the  earth  a  roar 

Resounded  deep,  —  a  fearful  thing  to  hear  ! 

The  horses  pricked  their  ears,  and  raised  their  heads 

Aloft ;  and  on  us  boyish  terror  fell, 

Wondering   whence    came    the    sound  ;    but  then  we 

glanced 
Toward  the  sea-beaten  shore,  and  saw  a  wave 
Divine,  that  rose  to  heav'n,  so  that  mine  eye 
Beheld  no  longer  the  Skironian  crags  ; 
The  isthmus  and  Asclepios'  rock  were  bid. 
Swelling  aloft,  and  white  with  bubbling  foam, 
With  roaring  sound  the  billow  neared  the  spot 
Where  on  the  beach  the  four-horse  chariot  stood. 
And  from  the  mighty  breaker  as  it  fell, 
A  bull,  a  furious  monster,  issued  forth. 
The  land,  that  with  his  bellowings  was  filled, 
Reechoed  fearfully,  and  we  who  gazed 
Found  it  too  grim  a  sight  to  look  upon. 
A  dreadful  panic  seized  at  once  the  steeds. 
Their  master,  fully  trained  in  all  the  arts 
Of  horsemanship,  laid  hold  upon  the  reins, 
And  pulled  as  does  a  sailor  at  the  oar, 
Back-leaning,  all  his  weight  upon  the  thongs. 
But  champing  with  their  jaws  the  fire-wrought  bit, 
They  burst  away,  nor  could  the  pilot-hand, 
Nor  curb,  nor  massive  chariot  hold  them  in. 
And  now,  if  toward  a  softer  spot  of  earth 
The  helmsman  strove  to  turn  and  guide  their  course, 
The  bull  appeared  in  front,  and  drove  them  back, 
Maddening  with  affright  the  four-horse  team. 
Or  if  with  frenzied  mind  they  neared  the  rocks, 
He  followed  silent  at  the  chariot's  rim, 
Until  he  overthrew  and  cast  it  down, 
Dashing  the  wheel  against  a  stone. 


244  THREE  DRAMAS    OF  EURIPIDES. 

Then  all 
Lay  wildly  mingled.     High  aloft  were  tossed 
The  naves,  and  linchpins  from  the  axle-trees. 
While  he,  poor  wretch,  entangled  in  the  reins, 
Was  dragged  along,  inextricably  bound. 
His  gentle  head  was  dashed  upon  the  rock, 
His  flesh  was  bruised  ;  and  piteous  were  his  words  : 
"  Stand  !  ye  who  at  my  mangers  took  your  food, 
And  crush  me  not !     Alas  !  my  father's  curse  ! 
Who  is  there  here  will  save  an  upright  man  ?  " 
And  many  would  ;  but  we  were  come  too  late, 
With  tardy  feet.     So  he,  released  from  thongs 
And  well-cut  reins,  —  but  how  I  do  not  know,  — - 
Is  fallen,  breathing  yet  a  little  life. 
The  steeds  and  cursed  bull  were  hid  from  sight, 
But  where  I  know  not,  in  the  rocky  land. 

And  then  the  messenger  lifts  his  head  defiantly  to 
face  the  unrelenting  king,  and  adds  : 

I  am  a  slave  within  thy  house,  0  king, 
But  this  at  least  I  never  will  believe, 
That  he,  thy  son,  was  guilty  :  not  although 
The  whole  of  womankind  go  hang  themselves, 
\  And  with  their  letters  fill  the  pines  that  grow 
'On  Ida.     For  that  he  was  noble  I  know ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas! 
The  sorrow  is  fulfilled  of  newer  woes ! 
From  fate  and  destiny  is  no  escape. 

THESEUS. 

Out  of  my  hate  for  him  who  suffered  this, 
Thy  tale  has  pleased  me ;  yet  in  reverence 
Of  gods  and  him,  because  he  is  my  son, 
I  feel  no  joy,  —  nor  sorrow  !  —  for  his  woes. 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  245 

MESSENGER. 

I  pray  thee,  shall  we  fetch  him  here,  —  or  what 
Are  we  to  do,  to  satisfy  thy  mind  ? 
Consider  :  hut  if  thou  give  ear  to  me, 
Thou  'It  not  be  harsh  to  thy  unhappy  child. 

THESEUS. 

Ay,  fetch  him,  that,  beholding  in  my  sight 
The  man  who  says  he  wronged  me  not,  I  may 
With  words  convict  him,  and  with  Heaven-sent  ills. 

[Exit  messenger.     Theseus  remains. 

The  interlude  which  follows  is  merely  a  single 
lyric  stanza,  devoted  to  the  might  of  Aphrodite  and 
Eros. 

THE  FOURTH  STASIMON. 

Restive  hearts  of  god  and  mortal, 
Thou,  0  Kypris,  captive  leadest, 
While  upon  his  shimmering  pinions 

Round  them  swift-winged  Eros  flits. 
Over  earth  he  hovers  ever, 

And  the  salt  resounding  sea. 
Eros  charms  the  heart  to  madness, 
Smitten  by  his  golden  arrow  ; 
Charms  the  hounds  upon  the  mountain, 

Creatures  of  the  land  and  wave, 
Wheresoever  Helios  gazes  ; 
Even  man,  —  and  royal  honors 

Thou  alone,  0  Kypris,  hast  from  all  / 

Suddenly  Artemis  appears  aloft,  as  Aphrodite 
had  appeared  in  the  opening  scene.  Theseus  is 
perhaps  not  supposed  to  see  her,  though  she  was 
undoubtedly  visible  to  the  audience. 


246  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 


EXODOS. 

ARTEMIS. 

I  command  thee,  illustrious  Aigeus'  son, 

To  give  ear  unto  me. 
I  am  Artemis,  daughter  of  Leto,  who  speak. 
Wretched  Theseus,  why  findest  thou  pleasure  in  this, 
Because  thou  hast  wrongfully  slain  thy  son, 
Believing  the  lying  account  of  thy  wife, 
In  a  matter  not  clear  ?     But  clear  is  thy  doom  ! 
Why  dost  thou  not  hide  thy  body  in  shame 

In  the  darkness  below  ? 

—  Or,  changing  thy  nature,  escape  as  a  bird, 
Out  of  the  miseries  thou  must  endure  ? 

For  among  good  men  shalt  thou  no  more 
Acquire  in  the  world  thy  portion  ! 

The  state  of  thy  misfortunes,  Theseus,  hear ! 

—  Yet  I  accomplish  naught,  and  give  thee  pain  : 
But  hither  am  I  come,  to  show  thy  son's 
Integrity,  that  he  may  honored  die, 

And  thy  wife's  frenzy,  —  ay,  and  in  a  sense 
Her  nobleness.     The  most  abhorred  of  gods 

—  By  us  who  in  virginity  delight  — 
Goaded  her  into  passion  for  thy  son. 

She  strove  to  vanquish  Kypris  by  her  will. 

Her  nurse  betrayed  by  craft  the  unwilling  one, 
And,  under  pledge  of  silence,  told  thy  son. 
Yet  he,  as  was  but  right,  accepted  not 
Her  arguments,  nor  yet,  when  wronged  by  thee, 
Cast  off  his  oath,  so  reverent  is  he. 
Then  she,  in  dread  lest  this  be  brought  to  light, 
Wrote  lying  words,  and  ruined  so  thy  sou 
By  treachery,  —  which  yet  persuaded  thee  ! 


THE  H1PP0LYT0S.  247 


Alas: 


Does  the  tale  sting  thee,  Theseus  ?     Yet  he  still, 
And  hear  what  follows,  to  lament  the  more. 
Thy  father  promised  to  fulfill  three  prayers  : 
And  one  hast  thou  misused,  not,  as  thou  couldst, 

0  wretch,  upon  some  foe,  but  on  thy  son ! 
Thy  father,  then,  the  sea-lord,  loving  thee, 
Granted  thee  what  he  promised,  as  he  must. 
Yet  both  to  him  and  me  dost  thou  seem  base, 
Who  waited  not  for  oath  or  prophet's  word, 
Nor  probed  the  truth,  nor  for  a  length  of  time 
Took  earnest  thought,  but  quicker  than  was  right 
Hurled  at  thy  son  a  curse,  and  slew  him  so. 

THESEUS. 

Would  I  were  dead  ! 

AETEMIS. 

Awful  thy  sin  !  and  yet 
Forgiveness  still  may  be  within  thy  reach. 
For  Kypris  willed  that  this  should  come  to  pass, 
Sating  her  wrath.     The  way  of  gods  is  this : 
Not  one  will  interfere  to  thwart  the  wish 
Of  any,  but  we  ever  hold  aloof. 
Yet  know  full  well,  had  I  not  dreaded  Zeus, 

1  never  would  have  suffered  this  disgrace,  — 
To  let  him  perish,  who  of  mortal  kind 
To  me  was  dearest.     Thy  transgi-ession,  first, 
By  ignorance  was  freed  of  grievous  guilt ; 
And  then  thy  wife,  by  dying,  had  cut  off 
Inquiries  which  might  satisfy  thy  mind  : 
And  heaviest  on  thyself  this  evil  falls, 
—  A  grief  to  me  as  well ;  for  in  the  death 


248  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Of  righteous  men  the  gods  have  no  delight, 
But  root  the  wicked  out  with  child  and  house. 

These  last  excellent  sentiments  are  in  such  ap- 
palling contrast  with  what  we  have  just  seen  accom- 
plished that  we  are  tempted  to  hear  in  them  the 
poet's  tone  of  bitterest  irony.  But  we  should  prob- 
ably be  mistaken.  The  growing  gentleness  of  Ar- 
temis is  rather  one  of  the  indications  that  our 
drama  is  about  to  glide  into  that  tone  of  calmer 
feeling,  that  spirit  of  resignation,  in  which  tragedy 
should  end.  Even  the  awful  scenes  of  the  Oreste- 
ian  trilogy  close  peacefully  in  the  Eumenides. 

CHORUS. 

And  behold  the  unfortunate  one  as  he  comes  ! 
His  shining  locks  and  his  youthful  flesh 
Are  sorely  disfigured !     Oh,  woes  of  this  house  ! 
What  a  twofold  sorrow  appointed  of  Heaven 
Upon  its  roof  has  descended  ! 

Hippolytos  is  now  led  in,  leaning  upon  two  at- 
tendants. We  must  not  wonder  that  the  young 
prince  gives  free  utterance  to  his  agony  and  despair. 
So  do  Achilles  and  Odysseus  in  Homer.  A  Greek, 
of  the  heroic  age,  at  any  rate,  does  not  hold  the 
expression  of  any  genuine  emotion  to  be  unmanly. 
Even  if  a  Pericles  or  a  Socrates  sternly  repressed 
his  own  natural  feelings,  he  would  certainly  not 
expect  it  or  desire  it  in  his  ancestors,  as  depicted 
in  epic  or  drama. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Alas  !     Alas  ! 
Ill-fated  am  I  !     By  an  unjust  sire, 


THE  IIIPPOLYTOS.  249 

Through  unjust  oracles  I  am  destroyed  ! 
Already  is  death  at  hand.  .  .  .  Ah  me ! 
The  pains  are  darting  through  my  head, 
And  a  sudden  spasm  has  smitten  my  brain  ! 
Hold !     I  will  rest  my  wearied  frame. 

[Servants  pause  with  Hippolytos. 

Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
Ye  accursed  steeds,  that  had  taken  your  food 

From  mine  own  hands  ! 
Ye  have  destroyed  me  and  laid  me  low  ! 
Alas  !  my  servants,  gently,  I  pray 
By  the  gods,  lay  hold  on  my  wounded  flesh ! 

Gazing  dim-eyed  at  his  father,  who  has  appar- 
ently stepped  down  to  his  son's  side,  Hippolytos 
continues : 

Who  is  it  that  stands  at  my  side  on  the  right  ? 

—  Lift  me  together,  and  carefully  raise 

The  man  of  an  evil  genius,  accursed 

For  a  father's  error !     O  Zeus,  dost  thou  see  ? 

I  who  so  rev'rently  worshiped  the  gods, 

I  who  in  chastity  all  men  excelled, 

Pass  under  the  earth  to  an  evident  doom, 

Bidding  life  farewell ! 

And  quite  in  vain  for  the  good  of  men 

"Was  the  toil  of  my  pious  labors. 

Ah  me  !     Ah  me ! 

And  now  the  pang,  the  pang  returns  ! 

Oh,  leave  me  alone  in  my  misery : 

And  may  Death  the  healer  come  to  my  aid  ! 

Ye  are  doubling  for  me  the  torture  of  death ! 

I  long  for  a  two-edged  blade,  to  hew 

My  body  asunder,  and  lay  me  to  rest ! 


250  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Oh,  my  father's  fatal  curse  ! 
Some  unholy  kinsmen? s  fault, 
Crimes  of  far-off  ancestors, 
Come  to  fruitage  even  now  ! 
Why  has  this  befallen  me, 
Nowise  guilty  in  their  sins  ? 
Woe  is  me  I     What  may  I  say  ? 
How  from  pa  in  unutterable 
May  I  now  my  life  release  ? 
Oh,  may  darksome  deathly  fate 
Bring  me  slumbrous  rest  from  miseries  ! 

As  Hippolytos  sinks  back  exhausted,  the  familiar 
voice  of  the  maiden-goddess,  to  whom  his  youth- 
ful years  had  been  devoted,  suddenly  reaches  his 
ears. 

ARTEMIS. 

Poor  wretch,  to  what  disaster  thou  art  hound ! 
Thy  nobleness  of  soul  has  laid  thee  low ! 
hippolytos.    • 

0  breath  divine  of  fragrance !     Even  in  pain 

1  feel  thee,  and  my  frame  is  lighter  grown ! 
The  goddess  Artemis  is  in  this  place  ! 

ARTEMIS. 

Poor  soul,  she  is,  most  dear  of  gods  to  thee. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Dost  thou,  0  lady,  see  my  wretchedness  ? 

ARTEMIS. 

I  do  ;  yet  may  mine  eyes  no  tear  let  fall. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Thou  hast  no  huntsman  nor  attendant  now. 

ARTEMIS. 

Yet  thou  in  death  art  very  dear  to  me. 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  251 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

No  one  to  guide  thy  steeds,  or  guard  thy  shrines. 

ARTEMIS. 

Ay,  villainous  Kypris  has  devised  it  so. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Ah !     Now  I  know  the  power  that  ruined  me. 

AKMETIS. 

She  grudged  my  honors,  chafed  that  thou  wert  pure. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Ay,  she  alone,  I  see,  destroyed  us  three  —    ^ 

AKTEMIS. 

Thy  father,  and  thyself,  and  third  his  spouse. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

I  sorrow  for  my  father's  grief  as  well. 

AKTEMIS. 

By  superhuman  craft  was  he  deceived. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

How  wretched  art  thou,  father,  in  this  woe  ! 

THESEUS. 

I  am  slain,  my  child  !     Life  has  no  charm  for  me  ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

I  mourn  thy  error  more  for  thee  than  me. 

THESEUS. 

Would  I,  my  child,  could  perish  in  thy  stead ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Thy  sire  Poseidon  gave  thee  bitter  gifts ! 

THESEUS. 

Oh  that  my  lips  had  never  shaped  the  wish ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

What  then  ?     Thou  wouldst   have    slain  me   in  thy 
wrath ! 

THESEUS. 

The  gods  had  robbed  me  of  my  wiser  thoughts. 


252  THREE  DRAMAS  OF  EURIPIDES. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Ah  me ! 
Oh  that  mankind  could  curse  the  powers  above  ! 

AKTEMIS. 

Stay  !  for  although  to  nether  gloom  thou  pass, 
Not  unavenged  the  eager  wrath  divine 
Of  Kypris  shall  upon  thy  body  fall, 
Because  of  thy  pure  heart  and  piety  ; 
For  I,  in  recompense,  will  slay  that  one 
Of  mortals  who  may  be  most  dear  to  her, 
With  these  unerring  shafts  from  mine  own  hand. 
On  thee,  poor  sufferer,  to  requite  thy  woes, 
kIn  the  Troizenian  town  I  will  bestow 
High  honors.     Maidens,  ere  their  bridal  day, 
Shall  shear  their  tresses  for  thee  ;  thou  shalt  reap 
Through  many  a  year  the  harvest  of  their  tears. 
The  grief  of  maidens  shall  thy  minstrel  be, 
And  Phaidra's  passion  for  thee  nevermore 
Shall  into  silence  and  oblivion  fall. 

Do  thou,  O  child  of  reverend  Aigeus,  take 
Into  thine  arms  thy  son,  and  clasp  him  close. 
Unwilling  thou  hast  slain  him,  and  to  men 
Error  is  natural  when  the  gods  so  guide. 
Farewell !     I  must  not  look  upon  a  corpse, 
Nor  sear  mine  eyes  with  agonies  of  death : 
And  thou,  I  see,  art  near  that  final  pang. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Farewell  to  thee  departing,  blessed  maid ! 
And  painless  end  our  long  companionship. 
At  thy  command  I  strive  not  with  my  sire, 
Even  as  before  I  hearkened  to  thy  words. 

[Artemis  vanishes. 

Ah  me  ! 


THE  HIPPOLYTOS.  253 

The  darkness  falls  already  on  my  eyes. 
Clasp  me,  my  father,  and  uplift  my  form. 

THESEUS. 

Alas  !     What  dost  thou  to  thy  wretched  sire ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

I  am  dead !     I  see  already  Hades'  gates ! 

THESEUS. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  my  soul  unpurified  ? 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Not  so ;  for  1  absolve  thee  from  my  death. 

THESEUS. 

What,  dost  thou  free  me  from  the  stain  of  blood  ? 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

—  And  call  as  witness  on  the  archer-maid. 

THESEUS. 

Dearest,  how  noble  dost  thou  seem  to  me ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  thee,  my  sire  ! 

THESEUS. 

Alas  for  thy  most  pure  and  reverent  soul ! 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

Pray  thou  for  lawful  children  like  to  me. 

THESEUS. 

Desert  me  not,  my  child,  but  still  be  strong. 

HIPPOLYTOS. 

My  strength  is  spent,  and  I  am  dead,  my  sire. 
Make  haste  to  cover  with  the  robe  my  face. 


THESEUS. 

O  glorious  bounds  of  Athens,  Pallas'  land, 
Of  what  a  man  art  thou  bereft !    Alas  ! 
Kypris,  thy  deeds  I  shall  remember  long  ! 


[Dies. 


254  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

The  body  is  carried  into  the  palace,  followed  by 
the  stricken  king'.  The  chorus  file  slowly  out  to 
the  movement  of  these  simple  but  fitting  lines : 

CHORUS. 

On  all  in  our  city  in  common  this  grief 
Unexpected  befalls. 

The  fountain  of  many  a  tear  it  will  prove. 
For  the  fame  and  well-earned  lamentation  endure 
The  longer  for  great  men  departed. 


EPILOGUE. 

It  is  related  that  Sophocles  once  remarked  con- 
cerning his  younger  rival,  "I  draw  men  as  they 
ought  to  be,  Euripides  as  they  are."  Gentle  and 
tolerant  as  these  words  may  sound  at  the  first  hear- 
ing, they  claim,  if  authentic,  a  much  greater  supe- 
riority than  the  final  verdict  of  posterity  is  ready 
to  grant ;  for  they  mean  nearly  this :  '  I  am  an 
idealist,  he  is  a  mere  realist.  I  am  an  artist,  he 
but  a  craftsman.'  He  who  attempts  merely  to  draw 
men  as  they  are  has  no  conception  of  the  true  aim 
of  art,  nor  of  the  limitations  set  to  his  own  powers. 
To  the  admirer  of  mere  realism,  the  maker  of  wax 
figures  is  a  better  workman  than  the  sculptor,  the 
newspaper  reporter  excels  romancer  and  dramatist. 
He  who  with  his  poor  little  palette,  his  block  and 
chisel,  or  his  inkhorn,  sallies  forth  to  a  contest 
with  nature  is  beaten  hopelessly  before  the  tourney 
begins.  Imitation  is  not  the  final  aim  of  art. 
Mere  imitation  is  destruction  of  all  art.  If  there- 
fore we  must  be  divided  into  disciples  and  oppo- 
nents of  realism  pure  and  simple,  I  range  myself 
promptly  with  the  latter.  But  I  turn  gladly  from 
negative  criticism  to  the  development  of  my  own 
creed. 

First,  then,  the  dramatist,  like  every  artist,  must 


256  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

find  his  strength  in  his  weakness.  He  is  finite : 
nature  is  infinite.  Therefore  he  must  finish.  Na- 
ture never  finishes.  He  must  show  us,  within  the 
limits  of  his  frame,  that  unity  of  purpose,  that  sim- 
plicity of  outline,  that  complete  attainment  of  the 
result  toward  which  all  tends,  —  which  in  the 
actual  world  is  lost,  or  blurred  for  our  eyes,  amid 
bewildering  and  never-ending  detail.  If  he  accom- 
plishes or  aims  at  such  unity  and  completeness  of 
design,  he  has  perceived  and  accepted  the  limita- 
tions of  truly  artistic  work. 

If  such  be  his  goal,  the  truer  to  nature,  the  more 
of  a  realist  he  is,  the  better.  Schiller  was  right 
in  condemning  his  own  youthful  tragedy,  "  The 
Robbers,"  saying,  "  I  attempted  to  draw  men  before 
I  had  known  any."  And  so,  we  do  not  thereby 
acknowledge  any  inferiority  of  Euripides  to  his  pre- 
decessors when  we  say  that  he  was  more  of  a  real- 
ist than  they.  His  works  do  show  an  insight  into 
character  gained  by  close  study  of  individuals. 
His  plays  form  a  gallery  of  portraits,  while  those  of 
Sophocles,  certainly  those  of  -ZEschylos,  do  not.  At 
nearly  the  same  time,  Greek  sculptors  acquired  the 
skill  to  make  lifelike  portrait-statues  of  individuals, 
instead  of  mere  types.  In  the  one  art  as  in  the 
other  this  is  in  itself  a  distinct  advance.  That 
same  advance,  we  are  told,  Shakespeare  made  over 
his  predecessors.  Not  merely  the  noblest,  but  the 
only  worthy  study  of  mankind  is  man.  There  is 
no  higher  subject  within  the  reach  of  our  percep- 


EPILOGUE.  261 

tions.  The  highest  ideal  of  divinity  itself  which 
man  can  ever  frame  will  be  but  the  combination 
of  all  that  is  best  in  human  nature. 

But,  lastly  and  chiefly,  the  true  artist  must  of 
course  strive  evermore  to  select  and  portray  for  us 
the  noble,  the  heroic  features  and  types  of  human 
character.  This  is  only  saying  that  the  artist  is 
one  of  our  teachers,  and  his  object  must  be  our  ele- 
vation. Aspiration  toward  something  higher  than 
ourselves,  toward  the  highest  we  can  conceive,  is 
the  sum  of  all  teaching.  The  sole  worthy  end  of  all 
art,  then,  is  the  elevation  of  mankind  through  the 
contemplation  of  models  lovelier  and  nobler  than, 
and  yet  like  unto,  ourselves.  If  the  poet  is  not  a 
priest  of  humanity,  wholly  consecrated  to  this  holy 
creed,  then  is  he  indeed 

"  The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day." 

The  greater  his  talents,  the  more  bitter  is  our  sense 
of  grievous  waste,  of  irreparable  loss ! 

To  sum  up  still  more  briefly.  Three  demands 
we  may  make  upon  the  consummate  dramatist. 
He  must  realize  his  own  limited  powers,  and  at- 
tempt completeness  and  artistic  unity  within  a 
well-defined  frame.  lie  must  thoroughly  know  real 
men  and  women.  But  far  beyond  and  above  all, 
he  must  portray  and  make  vivid  for  us  whatever  is 
most  glorious  in  human  accomplishment  or  aspi- 
ration.   What  is  less  noble  must  appear  only  as  the 


258  THREE  DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

foil  or  the  background  which  shall  bring  out  the 
more  clearly  that  heroic  element  which  alone  is 
precious. 

Perhaps  Euripides  is  not  always  faithful  to  the 
highest  of  these  truths,  but  he  surely  never  would 
have  attempted  or  wished,  as  does  a  living  school 
of  realists,  to  deny  or  reverse  them.  I  believe  he 
would  reject  with  horror  the  idea  that  Art  can 
exist  for  the  mere  purpose  of  pointing  a  photo- 
graphic camera  at  all  the  commonplaces  and  vul- 
garities of  daily  life  and  ordinary  men,  or  for  any 
object  less  lofty  than  to  instruct,  to  inspire,  to  ele- 
vate humanity.  I  have  certainly  not  indicated  any 
desire  to  establish  an  Euripides-cult.  Indeed,  every 
literary  cult  rouses  an  iconoclastic  spirit  in  me. 
But  Euripides  does  seem  to  me  to  have  been  a  true, 
earnest  man  and  artist,  and  therefore  well  worthy 
of  intelligent,  sympathetic,  yet  critical  attention. 

We  feel,  as  we  study  his  best  dramas,  that  he 
thoroughly  understood  real  men  and  women  ;  and 
indeed,  that  under  the  thin  disguises  of  mythical 
names  and  scenes  he  no  doubt  bids  pass  before  us 
living  figures  of  his  own  day  :  Pericles,  Aspasia, 
Alkibiades  perchance,  behind  the  masks  of  Theseus, 
Phaidra,  and  Hippolytos.  His  people,  moreover,  are 
so  supremely  human,  that  we  realize  how  the  same 
emotions,  after  all,  love  and  hate,  jealousy,  revenge, 
and  brave  self-devotion,  throb  in  the  heart  and 
voice  themselves  upon  the  lips  of  man  everywhere 
and  in  every  age. 


EPILOGUE.  259 

His  moral  lessons  are  on  the  whole  sound  and 
true. 

Of  these  three  dramas  the  Medea,  most  perfect 
in  simplicity  and  unity  of  form,  most  terrific  in  its 
vivid  realism,  is  the  least  inspiring-  in  ethical  tone. 
Yet  even  there  evil,  though  unpunished,  is  neither 
condoned  nor  made  attractive.  The  unhesitating: 
self-sacrifice  of  Alkestis  surely  can  only  help  us  to 
be  brave  and  generous.  In  this  last  drama,  also, 
every  one  must  feel  a  thrill  of  sympathy  with  the 
firm  resolve  of  both  Phaidra  and  Hippolytos  to  face 
death  rather  than  yield  to  temptation. 

The  one  great  misfortune  of  Euripides  seems 
to  have  been  that  he  felt  compelled  to  retain  the 
superhuman  elements  in  his  dramatic  machinery. 
The  wonderful  salvation  of  Greece  in  the  Persian 
war  brought  the  gods  for  a  time  very  near  to  men. 
Herodotos  and  ^Eschylos  would  not  have  found 
incredible  a  tale  of  visible  divine  interposition  in 
their  own  day.  Such  faith  had  melted  away  in  the 
broad  daylight  of  Periclean  culture  and  skepticism. 
Moreover,  Euripides  had  clearly  reached  the  con- 
viction, in  which  modern  men,  despite  Emerson's 
beautiful  essay  "  Compensation,"  almost  unani- 
mously agree,  that  in  our  world,  as  bounded  by 
our  present  vision,  justice  is  not  fully  meted  out  to 
sinner  and  to  saint.  Phaidra  and  Hippolytos  do 
not  deserve  to  perish  in  their  bloom.  Neither  do 
Desdemona  and  Othello,  Juliet  and  Romeo. 


260  THREE   DRAMAS   OF  EURIPIDES. 

Ungerecht  vertheilt  die  Gaben, 

Ohne  Billigkeit  das  Gliick : 
Denn  Patroklos  liegt  begraben, 

Und  Tbersites  kebrt  zuriick ! 

But  the  modern  poet  desists  from  any  attempt  to 
draw  the  veil  which  enshrouds  the  divine  purposes. 
Our  saddest  tragedies  at  most  imply,  and  do  not 
expound,  the  belief  that  somewhere,  somehow,  com- 
pensation is  assured  for  what  seems  injustice  here. 

"  Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 

And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath,  with  pain  "... 

says  the  dying*  Hamlet. 

"  The  rest  is  silence." 

Euripides  saw  at  best  no  farther  than  we.  His 
gods  and  goddesses  he  could  only  draw,  if  at  all, 
like  men  and  women.  If  they  seem  decidedly 
worse  than  mortals,  it  is  chiefly  because  they  must 
be  held  responsible  for  human  suffering,  which  Eu- 
ripides depicts  with  so  much  pathos.  Remove 
Aphrodite  and  Artemis  from  this  drama  alto- 
gether, let  the  struggle  in  Phaidra's  soul  be  only 
that  contest  between  passion  and  reason  which 
every  man  must  undergo,  and  we  have  a  more  pa- 
thetic because  a  truer  situation.  So  at  least  men 
of  to-day  cannot  but  feel. 

Such  and  many  bolder  changes  modern  restor- 
ers and  adapters  have  often  made  in  the  classic 
plots.  Of  such  modern  work  on  these  same  themes 
I  deliberately  omit  to  speak  in  detail,  partly  be- 
cause it  can  never  be  of  the  highest  usefulness  and 


EPILOGUE.  2G1 

permanence.  It  is  not  a  revival  of  Greek  subjects 
or  Greek  forms  that  is  to  be  desired. 

"  That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest: 
Shape  of  that  thy  work  of  art !  " 

The  masterpieces  of  the  Greeks,  and  of  all  lands 
and  times,  are  helpful  to  the  artist,  indeed  to  every 
earnest  man,  chiefly  so  far  as  they  teach  him  the 
oldest,  the  most  familiar,  the  most  difficult  of  les- 
sons :  Know  your  own  limitations.  See  realities 
and  make  others  see  them.  But  see,  and  make 
other  men  see,  the  heroic,  the  inspiring  side  of 
every  truth. 


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